


A Cloak of A Thousand Furs

by ContreParry



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, fairytale, non-explicit references to non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:39:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 32,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9440828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContreParry/pseuds/ContreParry
Summary: The sun, the moon, the stars, and a cloak of a thousand furs will aid a young man in his quest for freedom. On the way he stumbles upon love. A Fenders Fairytale.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This took far, far longer to write than I intended, and I'm still not certain if it's done. I may add an extra epilogue, but we'll see how that goes. Loosely based on the fairy tales "Cap O' Rushes" and "Allerleirauh."

Beginning as I do at the beginning, and starting as I must at the start, this is a tale of struggles and triumphs, of glory and sacrifice, of what is hidden revealing itself until the tale is all is wound up like fine woolen thread on the bobbin of a spinning wheel. And where, do you ask, do all stories start? With a once upon a time. 

-

Once upon a time there was a young elf named Leto, a slave by birth and a warrior by training who shed his sweat in the fields by day and his blood in the arena by night. His long string of victories carried his name far through the hills and valleys of his country of Tevinter as fast as the north wind. Leto was a fine warrior who rivaled any knight of any noble house in skill and cunning. He fought with the strength and ferocity of the wolf, untamed and untameable. 

But there will always be men who wish to tame wolves. 

An old lord of Tevinter, Magister Danarius, as rich and powerful as he was feared, took an interest in the clever and quick Leto. He watched each tournament from his private box. The air was thick with incense as he basked in the shade surrounded by curtains to keep out the heat of the sun and the chill of the moon, for a noble does not feel the world the same way the common folk do. 

Danarius would sip his honeyed wine and watch Leto as so many of the other spectators watched. He watched the way the boy dipped and dodged the flashing blades. He observed how Leto’s feet flew over wet blood and thirsty sand. He saw how Leto stood victorious in the crowd, dark skin flushed and auburn hair turned black from sweat. Leto was power channeled through a blade and a compact, muscled body. Magister Danarius collected power the way a child collects river rocks: picking and choosing the best of the selection to keep for themselves. And there was a fire in young Leto’s eyes that told the world that he was the best. 

It was easy to bring the boy into his care. Slaves did not choose their masters or how they served them. Slaves obeyed. They obeyed immediately and without questions. And Leto’s master was short sighted and easily cowed into selling his prized slave to a magister as powerful as Magister Danarius. 

Danarius had the boy primped and pampered, washed with soap of goat’s milk and sandalwood, and dressed in silks that cost more than what would feed the boy for a year. Only then was Leto brought to him. And Danarius set cunning traps made of words and promises and flattery to snare the boy. He wanted a wolf to tame, not a slave. 

”I will make you strong.” The magister said. “Stronger than you are now. You will become the greatest warrior in the land.” 

”At what cost, my lord?” Leto asked, because he knew that all promises had prices. 

”A cost that you will gladly pay.” The magister replied, for he knew how to best convince Leto to do as he wished. For Leto had a family, and he saved his meager winnings in tournaments to buy his mother and sister from his master and set them free. 

”I will make you the greatest warrior to walk the land.” Magister Danarius promised. “You will serve as my knight in the next tournament, and in return I will set your family free.” And there was no price Leto would not pay for his family, so what could he do but agree with the Magister’s demands? He would serve. 

Leto’s training was harsher than anything he had ever known. He was no stranger to the strain and abuse of rigorous training. But Leto suffered under the ministrations of his new master and his master’s apprentice, for Magister Danarius practiced sorcery. He used his magic to experiment on Leto, twisting and changing the boy until he was molded into something else, something new, something more akin to a beast than an elf. He trained during the day and fought in tournaments in the night. When he lost he was pushed harder. When he won he was washed, fed, and sent to Danarius for the evening before the cycle continued all over again until Leto had become what Danarius intended. Danarius’s champion won the tournament and his family’s freedom, but he was no longer Leto. 

He had become Fenris. 

-

Fenris had strange dreams when he lay his head down on his straw filled pallet every night. He knew little of his life before he awoke screaming on a cold stone table with Danarius looming above him as liquid lyrium, a rare mineral that cost a small fortune to obtain, was poured into cuts in his skin. He rose with pale white blue scars in his skin and hair as white as bone. The pain burned away all his memories of a boy named Leto who had a sister and a mother and only wanted to run free with his family alongside him. Leto was dead, or so Danarius thought. But as Fenris dreamed he remembered Leto, and as he remembered he heard the Gods. In particular he heard the voice of one god, the one Danarius so wanted to claim: Fen’harel, the god of trickery and cunning. The Dread Wolf. 

_**Be my Champion.**_ A many eyed black wolf of enormous size said, its jaw dripping with flame. _**Turn against this monster, Leto, and take up arms against all that have enslaved your people!**_

”I am not Leto!” Fenris called up to the wolf. “I am Fenris! I have no people! I am alone!” 

_**You have been cruelly deceived.**_ The Dread Wolf told Fenris. _ **But the time for deception has ended. I am Fen’Harel, the God of all trickery, and you will now remember and remember freely.**_ The monstrous wolf lifted its shaggy black head and howled, and Fenris was struck with the force of thousands of memories flooding his mind. And as he remembered Fenris realized how he had been tricked by Danarius, for he was already a great warrior. Danarius had not made him stronger, he had only chained him. Leto had been a fool, and now only Fenris remained. 

”I want justice, Fen’Harel.” Fenris called out to the god. “Can you give that to me?” 

_**No.**_ The Dread Wolf said with finality. _**But I will give you an even start. Keep your memories, and know that I am watching after you, my Champion.**_

When Fenris woke from his dream, he remembered. He remembered _everything_. And Fenris swore revenge, for he was the chosen champion of the Dread Wolf, and wolves cannot be tamed. 

All champions received boons, and Danarius knew how to hold those favors hostage. He knew how to pull his little wolf’s chain by lavishing Fenris with attention and then withholding it. He crafted a wolf through magic and training, and now Danarius would break him. Tame him. There will always be men who wish to tame wolves. 

But wolves are cunning. Wolves are hunters. Wolves are patient. And wolves do not forget. Underneath the warrior who was Fenris was the elven boy Leto, and Fenris had not forgotten who he was. He remembered, and he waited for a day where he could run free. 

There was another tournament, a grand one in the majestic city of Minrathous. Danarius wanted his wolf to compete, to tear out the hearts and throats of every warrior who faced him. It would be an assured victory for his wolf, and Danarius valued victory and glory. He ordered his wolf to compete, to be his champion, and he moved his household, his wealth, and his wolf to Minrathous to begin training Fenris for the greatest tournament of his life. 

”What do you require to assure your victory, my pet?” Danarius asked of his wolf. Fenris kneeled before his master, but lifted his head and stared steadily at Danarius’s slippered feet. 

”I require a new sword, my lord. One as strong as the summer sun when it hangs highest in the sky.” Fenris replied. He did not lift his gaze above Danarius’s feet. He did not look away from the purple silk slippers. But he did not lower his eyes to the rich carpet dyed in patterns of cobalt blue and woven with threads of gold. 

”Then you shall have what you require. Continue training, my pet.” Danarius commanded, and Fenris was dismissed. He was taken back to the hall to train and endure the bitterness of Danarius’s apprentice. Hadriana’s words stung, but the end of her whip and the bite of her magic stung more. But Fenris was patient. Fenris could wait. He could always wait. 

-

Fenris was presented with his sword. The weapon gleamed bright and beautiful and golden under torchlight. Its edge was sharp, and the hilt was engraved with symbols of the sun. Fenris held the blade in his hand, pleased with its balance and weight. It was a sturdy blade, a weapon of great craftsmanship. Danarius kept his word. 

”What else will you require, my pet?” Danarius asked indulgently. Fenris stared at Danarius’s feet and the hem of his robes, a deep purple silk embroidered with thread of silver. 

”This sword is a fine weapon. Unmatched in every way.” Fenris said slowly. “But a fine weapon should be paired with armor of the same caliber.” 

”A clever observation, my little wolf.” Danarius praised. His laugh rose up and down like a wounded animal’s scream. “Armor of what kind?” 

”A breastplate.” Fenris said automatically. “One that gleams like moonlight on water, so my opponents may be distracted as I move through the arena.” 

”Then you shall have it, my wolf. Return to your training.” Danarius ordered, and Fenris returned to his training exercises and Hadriana’s rage, and after that to Danarius’s bed. Every day Fenris practiced with his sun sword, lived through Hadriana’s abuse, and endured Danarius’s touch, and he waited for his armor. He entered smaller tournaments and built up his reputation, but Fenris refused to use the weapon Danarius crafted for him. It was for the grand tournament, he said, and he would not use it too soon and give away his secrets. 

-

The breastplate was polished as bright as a mirror. Fenris observed himself in the metal, meeting his reflection’s glass green gaze before lifting his gaze to stare at Danarius’s knees. The robe was green today, the green of the tropical forests Fenris once fought in on the island of Seheron. He wondered what that green would become when stained with the red of Danarius’s blood. 

”And what does my pet make of this latest gift?” Danarius asked, his smirk a thin sideways slit in his face. 

”It is fine armor.” Fenris replied. “It matches the sword as the sun matches the moon.” 

”Who would have thought a wolf could make such dainty speech?” Danarius chuckled. “I am pleased to have created such a refined beast.” 

”I thank you for your words and gifts, my lord.” Fenris said dully. 

”What else would assure your victory, my pet?” Danarius asked. Fenris saw the way Hadriana, standing to the left and behind Danarius’s seat, clinched her fists at Danarius’s indulgence. He knew he would pay for Danarius’s whims later when Hadriana observed his training routine. Fenris suspected it was an arrangement between the two: Danarius fed Fenris compliments and gifts, and Hadriana fed him the whip to drive him towards his master. 

”The sword and armor are expected for a warrior in the arena.” Fenris said. “But there are other skills I have, ones that will be useful and unexpected.” 

”You plan to use your lyrium?” Danarius asked, and he shifted in his seat so he was leaning forward, leaning towards Fenris. He was eager to see his wolf use his abilities in the field. 

”I was crafted as a weapon, my lord.” Fenris spoke plainly. “I will use all at my disposal to ensure my victory.” 

”You require another item, my pet.” Danarius said, pleased by his wolf’s bloodlust. 

”Gauntlets, my lord. Gauntlets made of star metal.” Fenris replied. He required both weapon and shield, and gauntlets made of the strongest metal would be the greatest of advantages for a warrior. And it would be a weapon like no other, and Fenris knew Danarius enjoyed owning rare oddities. Adorning his little wolf with rare weapons and armor only increased his own prestige. 

”Then it shall be done.” Danarius commanded. “Return to your training.” And so Fenris left his master, and he resumed his exercises, and he endured the lashings inflicted on him by Hadriana, and he let Danarius paw at him in the night. Fenris endured and waited. 

-

The gauntlets were like nothing he had ever seen. They gleamed and glittered like the stars in the sky. They were shaped like the claws of a predator, sharp as daggers and just as cruel. They were a thing of terrible beauty. They were like him. 

”They are gauntlets worthy of a champion.” Fenris said approvingly. “I am most grateful.” 

”As you should be, my pet.” Danarius replied. “Should you be defeated I will be most disappointed.” 

”I will not be defeated.” Fenris promised. He kept his gaze trained on Danarius’s hand, on the bony fingers and thick knuckles, on the multitude of jewelled rings that adorned the man’s fingers. “These gauntlets will shed blood.” 

”Is there anything else you require, my pet?” Danarius crooned. 

”The sword is for fighting in the arena. The armor to protect me from my foes. The gauntlets will provide a weapon and surprise to those who face me.” Fenris said. “But there will be magic in the later rounds. I must have a cloak of enchanted fur to shield me from the fire and ice used in the arena.” 

”Master!” Hadriana protested, unable to bear the impertinence of a slave demanding gifts from his master any longer. “This slave has grown far too familiar in his address, requesting such grand gifts from you! Allow me to still his insolent tongue!” 

”Silence, Hadriana!” Danarius barked sharply. “Do you think me so weak that I must have my apprentice defend me?” 

Hadriana faltered, her expression apprehensive and confused. She had stumbled, her greed and bloodlust overtaking her caution, and now Danarius was displeased with her eagerness to punish his property. Her icy blue eyes shuttered with a thousand panicked thoughts as she desperately tried to think of a way to salvage her position. 

“N-no, Master Danarius, I merely thought-” She simpered, her voice going high pitched and sweet as she batted her eyelashes. Fenris saw the fear in every movement, the calculated way Hadriana made herself smaller and less threatening before the old mage. Fenris saw the fear and knew, for a brief moment, that he had gained the upper hand. It was the Altus mage beneath the slave now, and he silently relished in this small victory. 

”Perhaps it is you who should mind your tongue, Apprentice.” Danarius sneered. “I have others who can keep their mouths shut. You are easily replaced.” 

”It is I who erred, my lord.” Fenris murmured. “I have no knowledge of enchantments, and did not know that I begged for the impossible. Forgive me my greed.” Fenris slowly bowed his head until his forehead rested against the plush crimson and cobalt carpet. It was not a bow of submission but a bow to hide the mirth dancing in his eyes as the vile woman who hurt him received a vicious put down from her mentor. It was not enough to make Fenris forget who truly presided over the game that ran the household. Danarius controlled the rod in all matters, but Fenris enjoyed this small win over Hadriana. It whetted his appetite for future victories. 

”Very well. It is a simple thing. A cloak of fur you shall have.” Danarius declared, and it was so. Fenris returned to the training. Hadriana’s whippings were crueler than ever, for she had the damage healed before he was sent to Danarius for the evenings. She withheld his meals for as long as she could manage. She kept Fenris awake by calling for slaves to attend to her needs throughout the night, and she instructed them all to make much noise when going past Fenris’s room. But through it all Fenris watched and waited. His time would soon come. 

-

The cloak was made of thick fur, all types of fur in a myriad of colors sewn together to craft a cloak of a thousand furs. The hood was the head of a white wolf, a tasteless homage to tales of Arlathan and the Dread Wolf that was not lost on Fenris. Danarius wanted a wolf to tame, and he would always make Fenris his wolf. Always. 

Fenris stroked the nose of the now dead wolf and gave thanks to one of his namesakes. He was sorry the wolf died to make his cloak, as he was sorry for every death that stained his hands. He hoped that one day he would have the chance to make up for the wolf’s sacrifice, for every sacrifice made in his name. But today was not that day. 

”It is a fine cloak. There is none like it.” Fenris declared as he stroked the fur and stared at the amulet hanging from Danarius’s neck. The pendant was a round disc of gold decorated with ruby chips. This cloak would protect him from magic, from fire and ice and lightning. It was exactly what he needed. 

”Is it all that you require?” Danarius questioned. Hadriana did not attend to him today, Fenris noted with some glee. He heard rumors that she was shut up in her study, feverishly working on her latest attempt to please Danarius. 

”Yes, my lord. This is all I require.” Fenris replied. Tomorrow he would fight in the arena. Tomorrow he would fight, he would kill, and he would win, just as he promised. 

-

Fenris tore through his opponents with little trouble. His sword flashed like the sun and cut through blood, bone, and sinew. His armor gleamed like the moon and kept his body safe from harm. The sun’s reflection on the metal blinded his enemies when they stood in his way, just as Fenris predicted it would. The star metal gauntlets glittered in the torch light, and they dripped dark as the night sky with the blood of his foes. And when trained mages rained fire from above, Fenris drew his cloak over his body and let the flames wash over him. He stood over the bodies of fallen warriors crowned in golden laurels and he tasted _victory_. The Wolf of Minrathous, the announcer trumpeted to the crowd, had triumphed. 

Danarius was pleased. Fenris was bathed in perfumed water and scrubbed with scented soaps. His hair was washed in rosewater and his body rubbed down with olive oil. Special care was taken with his lyrium markings, as the girls avoided every line and dot while they anointed his dark skin with the oil. A slave girl darkened his eyelashes with kohl, and another brushed his pale hair until it was as luminous as a pearl. The slave girls worked hard to make Fenris look beautiful, and he knew that Danarius was planning to parade his pet, his Wolf of Minrathous, in front of all of the city. Fenris was not surprised when he was once again decked out in his now clean armor and cloak. He allowed the slave girls to tighten the gauntlets upon his hands and forearms, and he strapped the sword to his back with just as much care. He glittered like a treasure trove, and he was taken to Danarius and Hadriana as if he was the rarest of prizes. 

”You have done well, my pet.” Danarius declared as Fenris knelt before him on the carpet. 

”I have, my lord.” Fenris agreed. 

”What reward do you desire, little wolf? My Wolf of Minrathous.” Danarius asked. “The victory you have earned me is worthy of some praise, is it not?” 

Fenris lifted his gaze to meet Danarius’s, his green eyes meeting eyes as black as pitch. And he slowly smiled. He knew what reward he wanted. The wolf was hungry for blood, and now was the time to bite the hand that fed and chained him. 

There are always men who wish to tame wolves, but wolves cannot be tamed. 

-

Fenris tore out Danarius’s heart. He cut Hadriana down with his blade before she could leave his side to cast her spells, then reached over her mutilated body to tear out his former master’s heart. Danarius died on his gilded throne set with semi-precious stones, a pale imitation of the throne the Archeon sat upon. The blood bloomed over his chest like a black flower unfurling its petals in the sun. Danarius's apple red robes trimmed with pale fur gained a new beauty in Fenris's eyes as the blood ran dark and stained the embroidered seed pearls to match the red of the garnets set in the gold ring on Danarius’s finger. Apples and pomegranates, Fenris thought with glee as the slave stood over his slain master. Forbidden delights. Fenris had always liked apples. Fenris donned the wolf hood of his cloak and left Danarius’s estate through the front gate. He set fire to the mansion and watched that palace of dark decadence burn to nothing but ashes. There was no more Leto, no more Fenris, no more slave. There was only the wolf. 

And wolves cannot be tamed. 

-

He wandered over hills and down valleys, ran through fields of wheat and trudged through swamps filled with rushes. He ran and ran from his past. He ran like the wolf, his hood set over his head and his sword strapped to his back. Eventually he found himself in a land across the mountains where no one knew his name, where no one knew of Leto, of Fenris, of the Wolf of Minrathous. And this was where he continued to travel, not as Leto or Fenris but as something else, something stranger, something more animal than man. 

Fenris wandered until exhaustion took him, and he lay his head at the roots of an ancient oak tree. Only a few moments rest, he told himself, and he would move on. He would walk until he reached the Waking Sea, or go even further. He could go anywhere in the world. He only needed a few moments of rest. 

Fenris woke to shouting and the feeling of sticks and stones raining blows on his body. The cloak and breastplate prevented any damage to his flesh, but the blows stung what little pride he had left. But, he reminded himself as he came to, he had no pride. Men had pride, and he was now a beast. A beast's spirit could not be wounded. A wolf could not be tamed. 

”It’s a wolf!” A child cried out. Their voice jolted Fenris to full wakefulness, and he remembered falling asleep beneath the ancient stately oak. It was well that these children chanced upon him, for he would have slept his life away in those woods. He had run for so long, and he had so much more to run before he was finished. His attention returned to the children, a small band of ruffians with filthy faces and skinny limbs. 

”It’s a hermit!” Another child shrieked like a blue jay. 

”But ain’t hermits old?” One more questioned. Fenris lumbered up to his full height, and the children scattered away from him like scurrying beetles. The children ran with shouts of “Wolf! Wolf!” ringing through the air. Fenris waited for the sounds of the children's screaming and hysterical laughter faded into the wild before he stretched his body out. He picked up his sword from where it rested in and among the tree roots and strapped it to his back. He would have begun his journey again if it weren’t for the sound of approaching hoofbeats on the road. 

Fenris wanted to hide, but there was no where he could run to in time. So he moved to the side to let the riders pass and kept his gaze trained on the road. Do not draw attention, he told himself. Be as interesting as a blade of grass. The sound of hoofbeats came nearer, and with them the sound of men. Fenris expected them to pass soon, and quickly. 

But the riders did not pass. 

”Well, this is a sight you don’t see every day! Quite the cloak to wear in such fine weather!” A booming, cheerful voice proclaimed. The dark hooves of a chestnut colored horse pranced in place for a moment before settling down. Fenris kept his gaze trained on those hooves. He noted that the hooves were surprisingly clean. They must not have been traveling long. 

”What brings you to this land, stranger?” The voice asked. Fenris raised his hooded head up enough to catch a glimpse of a booted foot and a riding skirt made of fine crimson wool. A lady, then. The leather of her boots were of the highest quality, and crimson in that rich hue was hard to come by. This was a woman of great wealth and subtle tastes. Though her clothing was practical, it was clearly expensive. 

”I am a traveler. I am only passing through as I look for work.” He said truthfully, pitching his voice lower than usual to further disguise himself. Fenris knew little of being a hermit or surviving in the wilderness. If he wished to live, he must find work. Perhaps this woman was looking for a servant? A bodyguard? 

”Must have some interesting stories, if you’re a traveler!” The lady replied. Her voice was deep and rich, and she never seemed to lose her enthusiasm. He noted that her hands were covered in tiny scars, evidence of many battles with blades. What sort of grand lady had scars on her hands? Images of Hadriana’s hands, those pale, bony, taloned hands, flashed across his mind. They were scarred as well, scarred from the casting of her dark magic. But Hadriana was an Altus mage of Tevinter. She was not a lady in any stretch of the term. No, Fenris was certain that these scars were evidence of time spent training with a blade. 

”In the company of the greatest storyteller of the age, and she wants to hear another man’s stories!” One of the other riders exclaimed. His voice was deep as well, and warm. His boots were made of russet red soft leather. His legs were short, and Fenris recognized the build of a dwarf. The dwarf sat upon a giant grey horse, the only sort of mount that could carry a dwarf- dwarves were notoriously heavy, their bones denser than other races. A lightly armored dwarf weighed nearly as much as a fully armored human knight. 

”Knickerweasels, Varric, you act as if you aren’t curious to hear a new tale!” Another man laughed. He rode in on a horse with a coat that glittered like spun gold. But though his horse had the finest looking coat of the party, his boots were the most ragged. They were barely held together by worn leather straps and buckles. Fenris saw that the left boot even had a scrap of white linen wrapped around it to keep it together. 

”Your stories are all the same, Varric. Murder, mayhem, madness, magic, and then marriage!” The woman declared with a laugh. “So many 'M' words mix my head up! I would much rather hear a tale from a newcomer.” 

The lady returned her attention to Fenris, and he felt her razor sharp gaze piercing through the hood of the white wolf. “So, tell me, passing traveler who needs work, what do they call you?” 

”I am called All Fur, lady.” Fenris replied. Leto the slave had stories. Fenris the gladiator and fugitive had stories. The Wolf of Minrathous had stories as well, but they were dark and dangerous stories indeed. A ragged creature called All Fur had no stories to tell. A creature like All Fur could not be tracked. A creature called All Fur would not be found. 

”Very well, All Fur.” The woman said cheerfully. “Where do you plan to go?” 

”A little further than you, my lady.” Fenris replied. Too many questions. 

”Tight lipped, aren’t we?” The dwarf, Varric, muttered, and the woman laughed. 

”If you want some work before you move on a little further, All Fur, why don’t you come with us to Kirkwall? There’s work to be had at the castle, I’m sure.” The woman said casually. 

”Hawke, you have a big heart, but you can’t hire people on a whim.” Varric said, as if this conversation had been had a hundred hundred times. It must have been, for Varric said it with all the exhausted fondness of a man who knew his advice would be ignored. 

”You could use an assistant, couldn’t you Anders?” The woman, Hawke, suggested. Her horse started prancing in place, hooves stomping dull against the heavily packed dirt. 

”No, Hawke. I do not need an assistant of any kind.” The man with the worn down boots spoke. “I’m doing quite well as the Court Healer without any _extra_ interference.” 

Fenris was grateful the man, Anders, did not agree to take Fenris as an apprentice. That he said he was a healer and not a physician suggested magic, and Fenris had had his fill of mages. He would not place himself at the mercy of another when he had only just clawed his way out of Danarius’s clutches. 

”And you, Varric? You could use a secretary, I know it! Someone to toss out all those useless letters you complain about.” Hawke said. Her booming voice turned pleading and sweet, and Fenris worried that her honey would convince the dwarf to go along with her plan. Letters? Secretary? Fenris was a slave, a warrior with a few special tasks he performed for Danarius’s pleasure. Reading and writing were not among his select skill set. He would be discovered in an instant! 

”I’m not subjecting anyone to my correspondence.” Varric joked, and Fenris found he could breathe again. “Not even my worst enemies deserve that torture!” 

”I will be on my way, lady. Good day.” Fenris said politely. The relationships here twined together in complicated patterns that Fenris could not keep track of. This group of travelers smelled of trouble, trouble Fenris could not afford to entangle himself with. 

”No! Wait! All Fur!” Lady Hawke called out. “Come with us! Stay an evening at my home. We’ll find you a place in the kitchens. You can leave in the morning if it’s not to your liking, but there’s always work to be found there if you need it.” 

”It’s better than sleeping in the woods.” She added when Fenris hesitated. She was not wrong, the woman in red. Fenris did not know how to survive in the wilderness. That he had gone so far without trouble was a stroke of very good fortune that he knew would not hold. 

But he had worked in kitchens as a child. It would not kill him to work in a kitchen again as he got his feet under him. No one would think to look for a warrior among the kitchen staff. 

”Then I will follow, lady.” Fenris said, gathering his sword and pulling the cloak of fur more firmly around his shoulders. 

”Anders, let him ride with you.” Hawke ordered. There was an authoritative weight to her voice that made men sit straighter and take notice. She demanded respect. 

”Me?” Anders sounded vaguely offended. “You’re the one bringing in the strays, Hawke!” 

”Mother will murder me if I gallop into the city riding double, what with my betrothal celebrations coming up. Varric’s mount can’t take another rider, and I’m not having All Fur run alongside us back to the castle.” Hawke said lightly, but there was still iron in her voice. “So you’ll double up.” 

”Very well. Come on up, All Fur. Ser Sunshine Gold can bear the extra weight.” The man, Anders, said. He sounded put out, but he indulged the lady in her odd whims. So Fenris hoisted himself up behind the man and kept very still as the party began to gallop again. While they traveled Fenris surreptitiously examined his temporary traveling companions. 

Lady Hawke was tall and broad shouldered, her crimson riding habit tight around her torso and flaring out at her hips. She was statuesque, with short dark hair and eyes of the pale blue hue of a winter skies her namesake soared through. She was not beautiful, not in a classical way, but there was a strength to her face that Fenris found compelling. Her features lay somewhere between masculine and feminine, and it was charming and strong. She attempted to draw Fenris into conversations that required responses longer than “Yes,” “No,” and “Perhaps.” She was unsuccessful, but was not deterred. She appeared kind, though Fenris told himself that people were not often like their looks. He would tread carefully with the Lady Hawke. 

The dwarf was an oddity. Varric seemed uncomfortable with riding a horse and even more uncomfortable with nature in general. Fenris recognized a fellow city dweller. Varric was also flashy, which Fenris would have never associated with a dwarf. The russet boots were pulled over well made dark wool breeches, and Fenris recognized that the dwarf’s frock coat was made of high quality leather. All the dwarves Fenris knew dressed simply, but Varric seemed fastidious about his appearance. His sandy hair was tied back with a fine woven band, and his peacock blue shirt was half open to reveal an impressive amount of chest hair. Even Varric’s face was unlike any dwarf Fenris knew. He had no beard, only a bit of scruff. But he was amiable and free with his charm and laughter, and he drew a few small smiles out of Fenris with his stories and jokes. Fenris hid those smiles under his hood. 

The last member of their crew, Anders, was as odd as the others. He was tall and thin, and his clothing was far more ragged than his companions. The fabric was of high quality, but worn with age and use. He was blonde and tied his hair back in a tail that was always coming loose. Fenris somewhat hesitantly acknowledged that Anders was handsome in an angular, sharp sort of way. His nose was large and pointed, his skin freckled, and his eyes bright and golden. Anders was also loud. He laughed and joked and ignored Fenris completely. Fenris wondered why the man did not value silence. He filled the air with his idle chatter. 

Fenris sat straight and tall and did his best to not touch the man in front of him. He returned his gaze to the road ahead and memorized landmarks should he need to retrace his steps and escape. There was a fallen log with two branches that looked like dragon horns. There to the left, several yards away from the log, was a giant boulder with a large crack splitting it in two. So it went on, until Fenris found himself looking over a cliff edge to the city below. 

The city rose up from the edge of the sea. Fenris counted the many grey stone towers looming over the waves as the party rode down a winding path between two mountains. He had not realized they were traveling in mountains, as he was so surrounded by trees that he could not see the horizon. As they rode down more of the city came into view. It was similar to the grand cities of his homeland, but it was less organized, rougher, more fortified than the cities he knew. 

”Welcome to Kirkwall, All Fur!” Lady Hawke announced. “We’ll be heading up there, to the Keep.” She pointed one gloved hand towards a massive stone structure at the highest level of the city. Lady Hawke clicked her heels and urged her mount to canter down into the city. Varric grumbled and followed, bouncing and complaining the whole while. Anders kept close to their heels, and eventually made it to Varric’s side. 

”I’ll tell the Head Cook to give you a job, All Fur. Hawke is forgetful. Gets swept up in the rush and enthusiasm and has to run off to the next new thing.” Varric said. Fenris did not reply, but he found some comfort in knowing that he would not be completely abandoned the moment he set his feet on the ground. 

He was not abandoned, and, surprisingly, Hawke did not forget him. Instead she marched to the kitchens and told the Head Cook, a diminutive elf named Orana, that she had brought her a new worker for the time being. 

”At least give him a crust of bread and a place to rest his head for the night.” Lady Hawke pleaded. Orana did not need to be persuaded and immediately caved to her mistress’s demands. Yet when Lady Hawke and the other members of her entourage left the kitchen her manner changed. She placed her slender hands on her narrow hips and shook her head, clucking her tongue like a disapproving hen. Blond strands fell out of her bun, framing her pointed face in a halo of straw colored strands. 

”Lady Hawke is always so demanding.” She sighed. “I cannot ask you to cook, dressed in fur as you are. You cannot serve in the upper rooms, the Dowager Lady Amell would scold me most severely!” Orana hesitated, chewing on her bottom lip and looking Fenris up and down. She came to a decision, and her eyes brightened with delight. Fenris glanced down at her bare feet, and recognized the particular scarring around Orana’s ankles. She had once been chained, just like a slave. Were there slaves in Kirkwall? Was this elf still a slave? Fenris resolved to keep quiet. If he sniffed out slavery he could burn this palace down as well. No one would ever know. 

”You will work in the kitchens, chopping wood and washing dishes.” Orana declared. “You’ll have three square meals and a sleeping space in that room under the stairs for now. And you are not to go upstairs, the Dowager will have a fit if we just let a hermit wander about the palace again. She has only just recovered from Hawke bringing in Messere Anders, and he is a great mage and healer! What would she do if she saw you, all ragged and-” 

”All fur?” Fenris suggested dryly, and Orana nodded fiercely in agreement. 

”All fur.” She repeated. “Now, I will show you where you will be sleeping.” 

-

So Fenris was put to work in the castle, and he worked as hard as he ever did under Danarius. He chopped wood and hauled water, and the kitchens never ran out of dry logs for the fires or water for the cooking and washing up due to Fenris’s attentiveness. He swept and scrubbed the floors in the evenings, and swept out the ashes every night before bedtime. He rose before the sun and lit the cooking fires. When extra hands were needed in the kitchen, Fenris plucked birds and skinned game for the table. The Lady Hawke and her many companions did not visit, but Fenris heard of their exploits and often spied them hurrying about in the courtyard when he was about his work. Fenris did not wish to draw attention to himself, so he kept his head down and listened for every scrap of information he could glean from his fellow servants. 

He learned that Kirkwall was a grand trading port, a former outpost of the Tevinter Imperium that fell to a slave rebellion long ago. It fell to other rebellions in more recent times when the mages kept in the old slave market fought and escaped their tower. They then ransacked the city, taking extra care to burn down the slave market. And though Fenris feared magic and all the power and pain it held, he was glad the mages burnt that market to ashes. No one in Kirkwall could be bought or sold again, no man was property, and no mother would be torn from her child. There were no slaves, and Fenris was no longer a slave. 

It was Lady Hawke’s father who led the rebellion, and to hear the tale told was to hear a story of a love so great that it set the city on fire. Literal fire. The man created a bird of flame to soar over the city to free his lover, a young noblewoman locked in her home by her family and doomed to wed a foreign dignitary twice her age. Once she was free they intended to leave the city together and find their fortune elsewhere, but the nobles of the city and the mages of the former tower insisted the couple stay and lead them, for the old Viscount died in the attack and there was no one else. They complied, and a new era of leadership in Kirkwall was born. 

”Lady Hawke’s father, Lord Malcolm, was a powerful mage.” Orana explained once when Fenris brought in the daily firewood. She handed him a thick slice of bread smeared with a thin layer of butter for breakfast, and Fenris ate it slowly. The flour used for the bread was thick and gritty, nothing like the fine white flour used for nobles and their soft rolls. But Fenris prefered the grit because it was real on his tongue. White bread was lighter than air. It would not fill the gnawing hunger in his gut. 

”Was?” Fenris asked. 

”He died of a wasting sickness years ago. If Messere Anders had been here, perhaps he would have recovered, but he did not.” Orana said. Fenris ate the bread and did not comment. Orana continued speaking. 

”Then Lady Amell, the Dowager, took control of the Viscount position, and she held it until Lady Hawke came of age. But the Dowager is tired now, and with Lady Hawke reaching her majority Lady Amell wishes to retire from public life.” Orana said. Her small hands were busy beating a bowl of egg whites into stiff white peaks. “Her mother has arranged for her marriage now, but Lady Hawke is always finding ways to squirm out of any serious commitments.” 

”Indeed?” Fenris commented, and Orana giggled. 

”You are so very proper, All Fur!” She teased, setting the bowl back onto the big oak table. “Just like the fine folk upstairs!” Her green eyes danced with merriment as she prepared a thin, buttery dough for pastries. 

”You may weave ribbons in my fur and parade me about for the entertainment of the nobles of Hightown.” Fenris said dryly. He finished his slice of bread and cleaned his hands in the water basin by the door. 

”If we cleaned you up you would have as good a chance as any of those nobles to win Lady Hawke’s hand.” Orana replied with a smile. “The Dowager keeps throwing suitors at her with all these balls and tourneys hoping one will finally stick, but you’re as good as gold, All Fur.” 

”High praise indeed, but I am content here.” Fenris replied, for a creature of all fur does not mingle with the upper classes. But the thought did not leave his mind as he continued his daily tasks of collecting firewood and hauling water. Perhaps he did not have to remain as kitchen staff. Perhaps there was more for him to discover in this world, this strange city of Kirkwall. There was an entire world out there to explore, to live in, and it was the unknown. Kirkwall was strange, but Fenris knew more of the restricting walls of the keep’s kitchens than the world outside it. 

Fenris was not ready to leave the city of Kirkwall. He was not ready to remove himself from the small niche he found in the kitchens of the Viscount’s Keep. He was not even ready to shed the wolf hood of his cloak of fur. Fenris continued to work, hauling the water and chopping the wood, plucking the feathers of fowl and skinning the fur of game. He quietly lingered in doorways and listened to the conversations of the other household servants, and he went to his small room under the stairs every night to fall asleep before beginning the cycle of work all over again. 

But Fenris worked with a certain sense of satisfaction in his heart, for now he had a small purse filled with coin that was his. Every shining silver, even that one gold sovereign, they were his. _His_ money, that _he_ earned. Fenris often lay on his pallet at night and stared at the bag of coins, at that bag of possibilities, and he wondered. He could leave now and explore the world with some security in his pocket. He could work more and earn enough to buy a home. The possibilities were limitless. It was intoxicating. It was paralyzing. So Fenris remained All Fur and wondered and waited, for what did a wolf do when it wanted to become a man? 

One night as Fenris slept he dreamed again, and his visitor was a strange elven man dressed in armor and a wolf pelt. His head was shaven and his eyes a blue so pale it seemed unnatural. Perhaps it was, for the man walked past sleeping bodies without waking them, and Fenris recognized the kitchens and the servants who worked with him. Orana, with her straw like hair and commanding presence in the kitchens, slept curled up next to the ovens, a smile on her face. Jethann, his roaming hands and quicksilver wit now quiet with sleep, had draped himself near the butter churner. Carmen, with her soft features and sharp tongue, was entangled in her argumentative husband Basile’s embrace. They all slept on the floor, and the stranger walked between them all until he reached the doorway of Fenris’s closet. Yet Fenris was not afraid. 

”You have come far, Champion, but you have yet farther to go before your chains are broken.” The man said, and Fenris recognized the voice of the Dread Wolf. 

”You looked different, when last we met.” Fenris said cautiously, and watches the man’s lips quirk into a small, pleased smile. 

”I wear many forms, and shift to suit my fancy.” Fen’Harel said. “You have done well. Your name is whispered with reverence among the slaves of Tevinter. The magisters do not know if they should acknowledge your presence by having you assassinated, or to let you roam free and pretend you never existed.” 

”You tell me this because?” Fenris asked, and the god chuckled. It was a low laugh that felt as if the God was laughing at him and a private joke. 

”I thought you would wish to know.” Fen’Harel explained. “And so now you know. What will you do now?” 

”I will find myself again.” Fenris decided. “I have been lost for too long.” 

”Very well.” Fen’Harel replied, though Fenris sensed a bit of dissatisfaction in his voice. “But find yourself sooner rather than later, Champion. Time is not always your ally.” And with those words echoing in his ears Fenris awoke to the dawn and the start of a new day. 

-

”You seem to have settled in well.” A voice called out across the courtyard as Fenris hauled a bucket of cool, fresh water up from the well. Fenris tugged at the hood of his cloak to make sure it covered his entire face before he acknowledged the speaker. 

”I have, my lord.” Fenris said carefully, for it was the mage Anders who addressed him, the strange blond man with the easy smiles and quick wit, the one who fluttered through the halls with his head in the clouds and frittered away his days wagging his tongue. Fenris had seen his type before in Minrathous, the idle master who spared no thought to the world around him beyond what shallow amusements it could provide. But this one was odder still than those mages who walked those blood soaked streets. His behavior was unpredictable. One day the man would be dressed in his finest robes of teal silk shot with threads of gold and a caplet of ostrich feathers around his broad shoulders. He would flirt and tease and strut like the peacocks that decorated the elaborate estates of the wealthiest of magisters. On those days he was everything Fenris hated: the vanity, the shallowness, the flitting about as if the world was an endless party. 

But then there were the other days, where the man chained himself to his clinic and worked all through the night brewing medicines and healing the sick and injured. Or the days where he dressed in ragged plain clothing and snuck out into the lower city to care for the poor. His weight would drop dramatically, his golden red hair would go limp and stringy, and no amount of Orana's cooking or Lady Hawke's jovial interference could entice the man to take care of himself. The man wandered the halls in his ragged clothing with a wild, lost look in his eyes. Then the Lady Hawke, Messere Varric, or a woman who smelled of salt and whiskey and had sharp eyes and wicked smile would come and take him to his rooms. After a few days of blessed silence the mage would return to his clinic and his healing, and the haunted look in his eyes was gradually locked away behind his carefree mirth. Then the cycle began anew: the finery, the flirting, the way he worked himself to the bone, the desperation in his eyes, and finally the intervention from the mage's friends. Even the cycle itself was erratic and unpredictable. Some days the mage was dressed in his silk. Other days a lowly apprentice would come to the kitchens begging Orana to fix a meal for Messere Anders, who was unwell. Once Fenris spied the mage at the stables, cooing at a spindly stray cat. The edges of his crimson dress robes were stained with mud and horse shit. 

The point was, Fenris did not know if he would find the flamboyant mage that toyed at being a magister or the ragged lost man with the sad eyes. Fenris did not like that he could not guess what this strange man would do next. Unpredictability in a magister meant uncertainty for a slave, and Fenris could not survive if the mage was unpredictable. 

This time the man was somewhere between the magister and the dedicated healer. His robes and person were clean and he wore another, simpler feather capelet, but his robes were woven of durable wool dyed in forest green. His eyes were honey dark and sparkled with irreverent humor, but the dark circles under those eyes hinted at many sleepless nights. Yet the man still smiled at Fenris, and his teeth were white and even. 

”None of that lord nonsense. I'm the Court Healer, so just call me Anders.” The mage said cheerfully enough. “Now, I've given you plenty of time to adjust to life in Kirkwall and the keep, but I must insist you come in for an examination.” 

”I am healthy, Lord Anders.” Fenris said shortly, pulling up another bucket of water. “Save your services for those in need.” 

”I'm trying to prevent an epidemic.” The mage lectured, and his tone and stance was familiar to Fenris. He could not place it until he remembered his mother, and how she once fretted over her darling Leto wearing himself down participating in those “butcher's battles.” The similarities, from the way the mage placed his hands on his hips to the sunlight catching the strands of red in his hair until they glowed like embers in the hearth, rocked Fenris to his core. 

“Quite frankly, I have no idea where you're from.” The mage rambled, unaware of his audience's alarm. “You could be sick and have no idea. Some illnesses do not show themselves right away. It will only take a moment.” The mage offered his hand to Fenris then. His hand was slim and elegant, with a wide palm and slender fingers. Nothing at all like Danarius's fingers, Fenris thought, but a chill still cut through his fur cloak to the bone as he thought of those pale hands stained with blood. Blood for casting, blood for making, blood for breaking. 

”A moment I do not have, my lord.” Fenris said swiftly. He picked up the buckets of water, taking care to not let the water slosh over the wooden sides of the pails. “I have my duties to attend to. Good day.” He ignored the mage when he tried to follow him, losing him in the crowd of servants running about preparing for the first of Lady Hawke's betrothal feasts. Fenris remained hidden in the kitchens for the rest of the day to avoid the healer, and hoped the man was not foolish enough to follow a wolf into its lair. 

-

”There will be a grand tournament in the afternoon, and the whole staff has the day off!” Orana enthused. “Even you, All Fur! Do come and watch!” 

Lady Hawke's betrothal to some noble of another city was the talk of Kirkwall. Everyone was surprised that the lady agreed to marry, and to marry so highly as well. Lady Amell was beside herself with joy, and the celebrations leading up to the wedding would continue for some time. The kitchen staff was swamped with the preparations for the food the multitude would feast upon, and even Fenris had trouble keeping the wood stocked and the water pails filled. 

”I would prefer to stay here.” Fenris said demurely. “I will watch the fires for the feast.” 

”If you insist, though Lady Hawke had an enchanter come and fix the heat runes just last week. No need to tend to the fire for a few hours.” Orana said. “And we'll have plenty of time to sneak upstairs to watch the nobles dancing!” 

”Thank you for my share in the favor.” Fenris teased. “But I do not need to watch.” 

But Fenris thought of the tournament, and the feel of sand under his feet and the smell of metal. He longed for armor to weigh his frame down and the feel of a sword in his hands. Fenris was a warrior, and to cross swords with the finest warriors was a temptation he could not ignore. He wanted to fight. He wanted to win. He would find a way to join the tournament, and he would rise to the top of the rankings. It was the only world he knew. 

So he sharpened his sword with a small whetstone he borrowed from the blacksmith. He polished his armor with a rag. He unwrapped his gauntlets and watched them gleam in the flickering candlelight. Tomorrow, Fenris thought. Tomorrow he would fight. Tomorrow he would win. 

-

Fenris snuck out of the kitchens after everyone left for the tournament that next day. He hid his sword and breastplate and gauntlets under his cloak and clung to the shadows, darting from hidden place to hidden place before approaching the gates. He entered the tournament listings earlier that week, paying the entry fee with a few of the silvers he earned in the kitchens. He stashed the cloak of a thousand furs in the stables under the saddles and tack, and walked to the arena where the tournament was held. A clean faced, knobby kneed boy was assigned to guide him from place to place and carry his belongings. Fenris ignored the boy as he ran through his stretches and exercises. He reminded himself of the rules in this tournament. No killing, he told himself. No killing and no magic. No hidden weapons. Fight to first blood. Fenris decided to keep his markings quiet, and to only use his gauntlets as an extra defense. He would only use his sword and breastplate to his full advantage. His experience and speed would help him win. He would be victorious. 

-

Fenris won the tournament. He danced around his opponents, cutting at their legs with his sword like sunlight, swiping at their arms with his gauntlets of starlight. The metal of his breastplate gleamed as bright as the full moon. He cut through his opponents like a hot knife through butter, and his golden sword flashed like the sun on water. There was no challenge here. The competitors were too inexperienced or too proud to truly train themselves. Fenris moved like water, like wind, like a wolf dancing at the edge of the firelight, waiting for the right moment to strike. 

No one could touch him. He was a monster in the arena. He was once again the Wolf of Minrathous, but the sands and sun of that city were far away. He was the Wolf of... of Nowhere, he supposed. He belonged to nowhere and no one, and he would forever roam alone. 

Fenris disappeared in the crowd after the Lady Hawke awarded him his prize of gold, and he disappeared into the crowd. He found his cloak of fur in the stables and retreated to the kitchens, and he listened to all the kitchen staff as they spoke of the elven warrior with pale hair and strange markings, and how he cut through his enemies and stood victorious on the field of battle. Was he Dalish? Was he one of their own? Was he Shartan reborn, here to lead all elves to glory? The servants did not know, and Fenris did not tell them who the mysterious warrior was. He only nodded and listened, and when the servants left to watch the nobles dance in the keep's grand ballroom Fenris slunk into his room and unearthed the clothing Orana was going to toss into the rag bag, some party clothes that had grown too worn and stained to be of use. Fenris found time to repair the clothing in the evenings, and he now had an outfit fine enough for any nobleman. After every match he was paraded about at parties, and Fenris longed for what he knew even as he hated himself for wanting. 

Fenris looked at his reflection in the copper pans hanging above the bread oven. His tunic of pale gold silk stood stiff at the neck and clung to his arms and torso, and he paired it with dark brown doe skin leggings embroidered with intricate sun motifs running down the sides. His boots were thin soled so he could feel the earth beneath his feet. He brushed his hair until it gleamed, and he swept it out of his eyes so the three dots of lyrium set in his forehead were visible. 

It was more clothing than he wore when Danarius paraded him in front of his fellow magisters. More importantly, it was clothing of Fenris's making and choosing. He straightened the golden tunic and took a deep breath. He would go to the ball, he would watch the gathered crowd, and he would enjoy himself as he never had under Danarius's rule. 

Fenris did what he could to slip into the ballroom unnoticed, but the sharp eyes of Lady Hawke spotted him before he could try to hide. The lady greeted him loudly with a broad smile before crossing the hall. She cut an imposing figure, draped as she was in vibrant crimson. 

”Our mysterious champion, The Wolf!” Lady Hawke said brightly. Her voice boomed across the room and filled every ear. “We did not think you would show!” 

”I thought it only appropriate that I make an appearance, my lady.” Fenris said politely, bowing at the waist to show his respect. He did not kneel at her feet. He did not cower in fear. He bowed, as was fitting for a warrior greeting a possible patron. He was not a slave. Fenris was proud that he could stand as a man and not a beast or a slave. 

”We're pleased to have you here, Ser Wolf.” Hawke took his arm and led him through the hall. “Do you have a name? Ser Wolf is bound to get irritating after a while.” 

”I have no name.” Fenris lied. “Ser Wolf will do.” He could not be Fenris, not now, because that was what Danarius called him and he could not bear for Danarius to mark this moment in Kirkwall, where his chains were broken. He couldn't be Leto either, for Leto was a child. Ser Wolf would have to be his identity until he made himself anew. 

”Very well, Ser Wolf.” Lady Hawke smiled and pulled him along, introducing him to other revelers and as she waxed eloquently about his prowess. She even introduced Fenris to her betrothed, a tall, handsome man with tan skin, auburn hair, and eyes as blue as a summer sky. The man was polite and shook Fenris's hand as he complimented his swordsmanship, and he looked Fenris in the eye as if he was an equal. 

”An unusual weapon, a greatsword. Not many elves choose to wield such a heavy blade.” The man, a Prince of Starkhaven, remarked. 

”It fits my hand best.” Fenris said simply, for it was the truth. 

”And you fight masterfully, Ser Wolf.” The prince replied. “I look forward to seeing you fight again in the future. You have a gift.” 

Fenris managed to extract himself from Lady Hawke's grasp and the prying eyes of the other party goers when the string quartet struck up the music for a dance. It was too much, too soon. He was not ready to have all these eyes upon him when he did it have a blade in his hand. He slunk away to hide near the refreshment table, which was closest to the doorway that led to the kitchens. All he had to do was slip away in the next rush of servants, and he could make his way down to his cupboard unnoticed. The enigmatic warrior and champion Ser Wolf could disappear, and the creature All Fur would take his place. 

He was going to enact his plan when he felt a brush of silk and feathers against his shoulder. The scent of spices, of clove and peppermint, filled his nose as his vision was filled with teal shot with gold and ostrich feathers. He raised his face up and met a gaze of gold. 

”Good evening, Ser.” The damnable mage, Anders, purred. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?” When Fenris did not answer, the man's eyes twinkled with mischief and something that was not quite the malice of Hadriana, but similar. Fenris could not find a name for the emotion, but the closest comparison he could think of was indignation. 

”After all, you must be enjoying the spoils after the slaughter. You kept my clinic busy today, Ser.” The mage said, his teasing tone at odds with the cool fury that burned in his lamp-like eyes. But this was not the look of a lazy man angry that he was given more work, Fenris realized. This was another sort of rage akin to a lioness protecting her cubs from danger. Yet Fenris did not feel the familiar rush of fear down his spine as the mage glared down at him. Perhaps it was because they were equals here, and Fenris could not be punished by anyone ever again. Perhaps it was because the mage had never attempted to hurt him. Perhaps it was because Fenris understood what it meant to be a protector, and like recognized like. Whatever the case was, Fenris was unafraid. Fenris did not retreat to the kitchens and his cupboard. He stood firm and spoke. 

”No one was slain.” Fenris replied. “All the participants understood the risks of battle.” 

“Have a care with the other fighters.” The mage said, his voice low and threatening. “I can't sew limbs back on people like a toymaker repairs the arms of a child's doll. We are all fortunate that they survived.” 

”They are unpracticed. A challenge will do wonders for them.” Fenris said curtly. “And they are not dead. I made sure of it.” 

”You dislocated a man's shoulder by body slamming him!” The mage protested hotly. “You used your sword to cut a man's calf nearly to the bone!” 

”And I was nearly stabbed by a dozen different blades. That is what a battle is.” Fenris retorted. Did the mage not understand that injuries were expected in a fight? Even Fenris was nursing bruises from the few blows he was not swift enough to avoid. It was _normal_. 

”Nearly is not the same!” The mage hissed back, and he reached out to grab Fenris's wrist. But he stopped. His hand hovered over Fenris's skin, and the man's angry expression shifted to confusion. He looked down at the marks, and something akin to horror grew in his eyes. 

”Those markings are lyrium.” The mage said softly. “You embedded lyrium into your skin.” 

”It was not my doing.” Fenris replied defensively. “It was not my choice.” 

”Come with me.” The mage ordered. “My clinic. Now.” When Fenris did not budge the mage took his arm and pulled uselessly at him. “That lyrium is dangerous! I need to look at it before it kills you!” 

”A mage did this to me.” Fenris muttered. “A magister in the Imperium. I am not comfortable with another mage wanting to _look_ at me.” A mage looking at him and taking interest was what made him this monster of lyrium and flesh in the first place. A twisted sense of righteousness filled Fenris to learn that Danarius's greatest creation would end with his death. Fenris would die and Danarius's final work would die with him. Good riddance to garbage. 

”Andraste's Knicker Weasels, I'm not going to experiment on you!” Anders said, rolling his eyes heavenward. “I'm going to examine you and prescribe treatment, which is _normal_. I swore an oath to help those in need, and I won't abandon it now, not even for an ungrateful arse like you!” 

Perhaps it was the exasperation in his voice, or the brutal honesty that lay in every word, or the un-elegant way the man cursed and carried on, but Fenris believed him. There were no ill intentions here. So when the man tugged one final, feeble time, Fenris followed. He let the mage pull him down a hall and into a room on the right. 

It was a simple place, a stone room with a rag rug and a few tapestries to keep in the heat. The embers of a fire glowed hot in the fireplace. The room was lined with shelves filled with books and bottles and jars, and bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling. The wooden furniture was simple and sturdy. The fabrics and cushions were made of cotton and linen. It was comfortable, without any of the extravagance Fenris expected of a court mage. 

”My office. Sit up on that bench, Serrah-?” 

”Wolf.” Fenris said, and he hopped up onto the bench. 

”Not even a name? Just an alias? A patient should trust their healer, Ser Wolf.” Anders lectured, but he was back to teasing again. “Now, I will ask a few questions. Answer them as truthfully as you can. How long have you had the lyrium?” 

”Nearly ten winters now.” Fenris replied. He had no date, for slaves had no use for dates in a calendar, but he knew the seasons well enough. 

”Have your markings ever gone red around the edges? Does the skin grow hot to the touch? Does the skin go tight, like a blister? Is there any infection? Is there pus when you push down? Do you get feverish?” Anders’s questions flew like arrows. 

”Yes, but only a few times if I overexert myself. When I drink elfroot tea it fades away.” Fenris replied. 

”Good instincts. Elfroot fights off most infections.” Anders told him. “Are the markings all over your body, or only the upper half?” 

”Everywhere.” Fenris said. 

”Fucking Tevinter.” Anders muttered. “Roll up your sleeve, I need to look at the marks.” Fenris carefully rolled the sleeve of his tunic up to his elbow and held his forearm out for the mage’s inspection. Anders examined the skin, turning his arm back and forth, the lyrium glimmering under the light of the fire. The skin around the marks was only slightly pink, as Fenris had not drawn upon the lyrium in some time. He only used it to help lift his great sword in time to parry a blow to his face. 

”I think you’ll be fine. This is manageable, even though whoever did this to you had all the finesse of a child fumbling with a knife.” Anders finally announced as he let go of Fenris’s arm. “There is a spell that has knotted up your muscles and tendons, and the lyrium is an irritant, but I can fix that.” Anders flitted to a shelf, his robes swirling around his ankles as he moved. Fenris watched as the man rooted through the jars and bottles on the shelf until he pulled a squat ceramic jar off and handed it to Fenris. 

“It’s a salve, elfroot with ginger and a bit of lavender. It should soothe the markings and heal infection. With any luck we can prevent worse scarring.” Anders explained as Fenris turned the terra cotta pot over and over in his hands. “Rub it on every night before bed, and the redness should go away in a week.” 

“What must I pay you for this medicine?” Fenris asked, because he knew mages and magic, and all such miracle cures had their price. But Anders shook his head and smiled. 

“There is no price. I’m a healer. It’s my job.” Anders said, and his tired eyes in their many moods seemed serene. Satisfied. Fenris opened the jar and ran his finger through the thick ointment. It tingled on his skin, and when he rubbed it along his brands the ointment soothed the swirls and dots of lyrium in a way that made the skin around the markings feel new and whole. The soreness in his muscles eased, as if Fenris’s exertions occurred days ago instead of earlier that day. 

”It is… my skin does not ache.” Fenris said softly. He gave Anders a considering look. A mage who healed. It was not like anything Fenris experienced before. And Anders was not just a mage healer: the man healed with potions and medicine when magic was not an option. He looked after Fenris and wanted to see him recover, even when Fenris was quarrelsome and disagreeable. 

Fenris was not used to being healed. He was not used to being cared for. 

”You’ll need more treatment. This interference with your body doesn’t go away with a handwave and some ointment.” Anders explained. “You’ll need more healing, Ser Wolf. With magic, to try and negate the damage the lyrium’s done to your body. Come when the lantern outside is lit. I will be inside.” Fenris wondered how he could possibly come in for healing when he wanted to remain hidden, but Anders straightened his back and stepped away. 

”Now that that is taken care of, you should enjoy yourself. You are the man of the hour, after all.” Anders joked. 

The man cut a solitary figure, standing in his fine robes in the middle of his simple clinic. He seemed more like the peasant girl who sat in the ashes and longed to go to a ball instead of a powerful mage in a wealthy court. He looked lonely. Sad. In need of company. And wasn’t Fenris similar? Wolves could not live alone. They thrived in packs. They needed friends, family, a pack. A mate. 

”Would you come and dance with me?” Fenris asked, and after a moment he offered the mage his hand. And after a moment, Anders took it. Hand in hand, they left the clinic and returned to the ballroom. 

Fenris danced with Anders into the early hours of the morning. They never left each other’s side, and only stopped dancing to eat food at the banquet table. Fenris did not say much as they danced with each other, but Anders spoke enough for both of them. 

He spoke of his life growing up in Ferelden in a fortress called the Circle. He told Fenris of the endless watching and the agony of waiting for his guards to turn on him, and he laughed as he shared the many times he escaped the fortress before he finally left those walls behind to travel the world as a vagabond healer. Anders was full of stories of places Fenris could only dream of, and Fenris drank up the stories like wine. Anders laughed and led Fenris through the many dances that he was unfamiliar with, for as much as Fenris darted about the arena he had never truly danced until this night. Fenris could not remember a time he enjoyed himself more than this evening with Anders, a mage unlike any other he met. And when they parted in the dawn light out on the balcony, Anders was slow to let go of his hand. 

”I will see you again, Ser Wolf?” Anders asked. “If only to check on your markings and make sure you’re healing up nicely.” Fenris leaned up and pressed a dry kiss to Anders’s scruffy cheek. 

”I will return for the next tournament, Healer Anders.” Fenris promised. “I give you my word.” A slave could only obey, and a beast could promise nothing, but a man… a man could make oaths. A man could give his word. And a man’s word was worthy of consideration. Fenris returned to the kitchens and hid his fine clothing and the medicine Anders gave him with his armor and weapons before donning his fur cloak and pulling the hood over his head. He was All Fur again. He traced the lid of the jar of ointment before he left his cramped cupboard to begin the daily tasks in the kitchen. Even as he chopped wood and carried water, Fenris remembered Anders’s bright laughter and his gentle touch. 

-

Fenris dreamed for many nights after the ball, dreams of his childhood and his family, dreams of every happy moment he had in his homeland. They were short dreams. But there were other dreams. Longer dreams. 

”You found some happiness that night.” Fen’Harel, still in the form of the clean shaven elf with the pale eyes, remarked. He was walking through a vast library, and Fenris walked with him. Small lights danced before Fen’Harel, magic symbols that were as tricksome as their creator, flickering in and out and back to life again. 

”I do not see why my happiness is your business.” Fenris retorted, and briefly wondered if being cheeky to a God would be the cause of his death. But Fen’Harel only smiled. 

”It is not, but I am told I am as curious as I am clever. Mortal lives and loves confuse me.” He explained politely. The Dread Wolf was unfailingly polite, which Fenris found unnerving. It was harder to tell what a polite man thought. 

”I had a pleasant evening in the Healer’s company. What of it?” Fenris answered. It was the truth. They had danced and talked, and Anders did not press him for answers as others might. The conversation simply flowed like a river. Anders asked questions, Fenris answered the ones he wanted to. Fenris asked questions, and Anders answered as he chose. 

”Even though he is a human? Even though he is a mage?” Fen’Harel asked. “What makes Anders the Court Healer so different from Danarius and his apprentice Hadriana?” 

”He is not them.” Fenris hissed. “Do not mention their names in the same breath as his!” Anders was good to him, even when Fenris was All Fur. Anders was strange and flighty and flamboyant, but he never lost his fundamentally kind nature. Fenris found that he _liked_ him. 

”I have insulted you.” Fen’Harel remarked, running his fingers down the spines of books Fenris could not read. “I apologize. But as I said, mortals intrigue me. Do you love him?” 

”No.” Fenris said swiftly. He hardly knew what love was, but he did not love Anders. Not yet. “But I enjoy his company.” 

”Strange.” Fen’Harel replied with a shrug of one shoulder, his armor glinting, glittering gold. “I would think you would despise him, given the similarities. Human mage. I thought that the warrior woman would be more to your tastes.” 

”You know nothing of my _tastes_.” Fenris retorted, and Fen’Harel chuckled. 

”Apparently not. That is why I like you, my Champion.” The God of All Trickery and Cunning said. “Now wake up and do the unexpected. Learn to live again.” 

And when Fenris woke at dawn he felt energized and ready to live. He threw on his cloak of a thousand furs and made to start the day. 

-

”All Fur!” Anders called out across the courtyard. He was wearing the ragged clothing again, Fenris noted, the brown stained linen shirt and the boots that were held together by bandages. But his eyes were bright and friendly, and he smiled at Fenris as he approached the well where Fenris was drawing up water. 

”Healer.” Fenris replied, pitching his voice low to prevent the mage from recognizing him. “Are you well?” 

”Well enough.” Anders said, and he tossed his long golden hair back over his shoulder. “Will you come by the clinic today? I’m sure you can be spared for a few hours.” He smiled down at him, and Fenris wondered how the man could be as attractive in rags as he was in his finest robes. 

”No, thank you.” Fenris said quickly, drawing the bucket up. The water sloshed over the edge of the bucket and onto his feet. “I am healthy. I have never felt healthier.” The ointment Anders gave him soothed the lyrium in his skin, and Fenris found that he had more energy now that he could sleep through the night without pain. 

”You and that Ser Wolf.” Anders said, shaking his head. “What does a healer have to do to get a patient to stay still and take their medicine?” But he was smiling as he spoke, and his face was bright with good cheer. 

”I heard that you and the warrior who won the tournament spent time together during the ball.” Fenris commented, his curiosity too great to let Anders’s statement lie quiet. What did Anders think of Ser Wolf? What did Anders think of _him_? 

”All Fur, are you… gossiping?” Anders asked, and his smile was as bright as the sunlight. 

”I listen to everything.” Fenris replied, pleased to have made Anders smile with his words alone. “And people have spoken of little else but you and the mysterious warrior.” 

”Oh, he's mysterious.” Anders said, his eyes dancing bright with mirth. “And stubborn and quiet and very charming.” 

”I see.” Fenris remarked, hiding his grin under his hood as he poured the water into another basin. 

”He says he'll be at the next tournament.” Anders enthused. “You must think it silly, to be so excited over people hitting each other with sharp metal sticks, but I am excited.” 

”Hmmm.” Fenris hummed. “A little foolishness is permissible, in cases like these.” 

The art and ceremony of gladiatorial combat was sacred in Tevinter. Yet to hear Anders dismiss it as silly somehow lightened Fenris's heart. Fenris dedicated his life to fighting, and Danarius molded him to be the finest warrior who walked the land. But Anders did not care for fighting. He would not force Fenris to fight for him. Fenris could learn to become someone else, if he stayed by Anders's side. Fenris realized that he would enjoy learning how to be something other than the wolf, at least for a little while. 

”I'm a healer, and violence is not in my nature.” Anders explained as Fenris dropped the bucket back into the well. “But I do not think he is a violent man at heart. There is a... a sort of understanding in his eyes. He is not cruel.” Anders sounded wistful as he spoke, and his voice softened to nothing more than a whisper. “No, he is not cruel.” 

”You are a kind man, Healer.” Fenris replied. “And you see much.” 

”I have to. It's my job.” Anders said automatically, and when Fenris lifted his head slightly to peer up at the man Anders was looking down at him, his eyes warm and faintly amused. 

”I also see that you've been dallying by the well so Orana will summon you back to the kitchens and you can avoid a trip to my clinic.” Anders said cheerfully. “You are a clever man, All Fur.” 

”You will have to find me when I am less occupied, Healer.” Fenris said, laughter bubbling up in his throat like a spring overflowing with fresh, clear water before he picked up the buckets of water and returned to the kitchens. The next tournament, he told himself. He would see Anders again after the next tournament. 

-

Fenris prepared for the next tournament with more care than he had the first. He took up training again, sneaking out in the dead of night to run through the formations that made him so deadly in his homeland. But now he modified them, changed the deadly blows into something softer, more merciful. He could end a life if he so chose, but he could spare one as well. He would keep his opponents whole and unbroken. Anders would be pleased, and the thought of bringing a smile to Anders's face brightened Fenris's heart. No one had ever cared for him after they saw him at his worst. Oh, he had been _attended_ to, washed and bandaged and dressed by other slaves, but they feared him and trembled at every accidental brush of their fingers against his skin. But Anders? He scolded and lectured, yet his touch was gentle as he instructed Fenris on how to care for his marks. He had to see him again, Fenris decided, if only to thank the healer for caring. And he had promised. 

When he found extra time between his work in the kitchens, his training at night, and the Court Healer's incessant badgering that Fenris _just go to the clinic for an examination, Maker's tits!_ , Fenris liberated another stained shirt from the basket of rags and modified it so the garment was no longer three times too large for his frame. He scrubbed at the stains with cold water and lye soap until the clothing was as fresh as the day it was cut from the cloth. The new tunic, much in cut and style as the first, was a blue so pale it seemed silver, and the clasps that held the collar together were tarnished silver buttons Fenris found in the corner of the laundry rooms. 

Fenris made new leggings to match the shirt, and embroidered a pattern of moonflowers down the sides. It was swifter work than it seemed, for Fenris remembered patterns of old that his mother taught him and his sister both, and the threads wove stories that the illiterate elves of Tevinter used to communicate with each other: stories of life and death and everything in between. There were thousands of patterns, common tales swapped among the other slaves through embroidery. Fenris learned many of the patterns and enjoyed telling the tales through needle and thread, even if no one else could read them. 

Silver tunic and dark leggings complete, Fenris turned to other means of adornment. He purchased a circlet of silver wire and moonstones, the first bit of vanity he allowed himself since he left Danarius’s side. The clothing he repaired for the ball were fortunate cast offs he rescued from rubbish bins and repaired. The circlet was his choice, purchased with his copper coins. Fenris hid it in his storeroom with his other treasures, his sword and breastplate, his gauntlets and gold. He placed the circlet next to the squat jar of medicine from Anders, and he prayed for the tournament and the celebrations afterward to come sooner. He longed to see Anders again and dance with him as equals. Fenris did not consider himself vain, but he wanted to make an impression. He wanted to match Anders in status and in dress. With the clothing and the circlet, Fenris felt that he would easily be Anders's equal. All he had to do now, Fenris knew, was win the tournament that was fast approaching. He would be victorious, and he would spill as little blood as possible. 

-

Victory was harder to achieve this time around, but Fenris still snatched it up. The other competitors trained diligently and Fenris swore to himself that he would take more care with the other warriors. But in the end he stood victorious in the setting sun, his breastplate gleaming like the rising moon, and he disappeared into the gathered crowd so he could retreat back to the kitchens and dress for the ball. Orana chattered about the tournament and encouraged All Fur to join in and watch the ball, but Fenris excused himself and said he was too tired for such activities. When the others finally left the kitchens, Fenris sprang up from his spot near the fireplace and readied himself for the evening. 

He brushed his pale hair, he washed his skin with vegetable oil soap and cold water from the bucket in the kitchen, and he put on the shining pale blue shirt and the dark leggings embroidered with moon flowers. He placed the circlet on his head and covered himself with his fur cloak before sneaking out of the kitchens and into the stables. Once again he deposited his fur cloak under saddles and tack, and he hurried up the stone steps and into the keep. 

This time Fenris managed to avoid the attentions of Lady Hawke, who was making the rounds around the ballroom with her betrothed on her arm. They made a striking, powerful couple, but Fenris wondered if there was any love between them. They had power and beauty, to be sure, yet they seemed to be more friendly acquaintances than lovers. The two were beautiful nevertheless, and no one could pull their gaze away. 

Evidently Fenris was not the only one who thought so, for he heard a light, wistful little sigh behind him and to his left. He turned to see a dainty elven woman hiding behind a large fern. She was as slim and pale as a birch tree, and her large, doe like green eyes spoke of great longing as she stared out to the ballroom floor. 

”She is very beautiful, isn’t she?” The small woman murmured, her green eyes never leaving Lady Hawke’s crimson clad form. 

”She is… striking.” Fenris replied, as he found he preferred tall, leggy blonds to statuesque brunettes. The eleven woman jumped in surprise, nearly upsetting the potted plant as she stumbled back. It was fortunate Fenris was paying attention, for he grabbed the woman’s arm and prevented her from tumbling over completely. 

”Oh, I am sorry!” The woman fretted as she tried to straighten the dark green fabric of her strange dress and smooth her short locks of hair. She also reached out a pallid hand to pat Fenris’s cheek, and Fenris was too startled by this display of affection to pull away. 

”I had not realized anyone was listening, and was speaking to myself! Very silly, there are so many people I would have to be overheard at _some_ point, but I never expected it all the same.” The young woman rambled, nervously twisting the hem of her green silk skirt in her tiny hands. No, Fenris realized, the woman wore a surcoat cut into the form of a dress and cinched together with a broad leather and metal belt at her tiny waist. The coat was decorated with feathers and small bone charms and- yes!- Fenris recognized a variation of a Tevinter embroidery pattern in the cloth. It was a thick strand of ivy and ribbons that told of Mythal, Mother of All, and how she helped create the world. It was a rarely used pattern because of the complexity of the design and the many colors required to make it. It was a tale reserved for those of high status. This woman was important. When he looked into the woman’s pale, round face, Fenris recognized the tattooed markings of the Dalish winding over her round cheeks and small chin. 

”You must have traveled far to come here.” Fenris said cautiously. “I do not know of many Clans who would willingly let their First wander from home.” The woman flushed pink, though if it was from embarrassment or pleasure Fenris did not know. But she was smiling, so Fenris believed it to be pleasure. 

”I don’t, well I am in a clan, I am just visiting. I did not think to find another clan member here in Kirkwall!” The woman enthused. “I am Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae. Where do you hail from, friend?” 

”My mother’s mother was of Clan Lavellan.” Fenris told Merrill. “Before she was captured by slavers and sold in Tevinter.” 

”Oh.” Merrill whispered. “I am sorry.” 

”Her child and her child’s children are free.” Fenris assured her. “We are well. But you seem troubled.” 

”It is nothing, truly. Just rambling.” Merrill said softly. “It would be best to forget it was ever said.” 

”Forget what, Kitten?” A sultry, strangely familiar voice crooned, and a muscled, dark arm circled around Merrill’s small waist. She gasped in delight and hugged the newcomer, who wore a low cut dress made of crushed blue velvet. 

”Isabela!” Merrill said with delight. “I thought you were at sea!” 

”Darling Sparkle Fingers wrote a letter asking for my advice, so of course I sailed in to say hello!” Isabela said, and Fenris remembered her. She was the woman who smelled of the sea and would drop in to help Anders on those days when he was particularly upset and lost. She looked over Fenris with a critical eye, her dark curls hanging loose around her head and her golden eyes calculating and fierce. 

”You see, I heard a rumor about a charming warrior who swept the Court Healer off his feet and disappeared without a word, and now I find him here flirting with my darling little Dalish treasure!” Isabela spoke with an easy friendliness, but there was a sharpness to her words that said she wasn’t nearly so friendly as she seemed. 

Merrill laughed at her friend’s words. “Oh, Isabela! He isn’t flirting! He hasn't once asked me to dance or touched my bottom!” 

”You are a lovely woman, Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae.” Fenris said politely. “But my interests lie elsewhere.” 

”Good to hear.” Isabela said. “Because if you were toying with either of my darlings you would find a knife between your ribs, Ser Wolf.” 

”Ser Wolf?” Merrill gasped, and she frowned at Fenris. “You mustn't take the Dread Wolf so lightly, friend!” 

”I do not.” Fenris told the woman. “It is my way of honoring him.” 

The Dread Wolf, Fen’Harel, was the only god who heard his cries in Tevinter, and Fenris often wondered if the preservation of his memory was due to the trickster god’s intervention. The lyrium should have wiped away his mind completely, Fenris knew, but his memories remained, even if they were at times foggy and dreamlike. And his dreams of the wolf who turned into a man and spoke in blunt yet cryptic speech echoed in his mind. The more whimsical part of Fenris’s soul hoped those dreams were Fen’Harel’s doing. He liked the idea of Danarius’s favorite elven god favoring Fenris the slave over Danarius the Magister. 

”Oh! I see.” Merrill gave him a hasty bow. “I really must go, my friend, before I am spotted. I hope to see you again!” She hurried back behind the potted fern before clambering out an open window. Fenris wondered over the strange exit, but Isabela did not leave him in ignorance for long. 

”Poor Kitten.” Isabela sighed. “She was heartbroken when she heard Hawke was betrothed. Not that Hawke knows it, the obtuse cow.” 

”You are angry.” Fenris observed. Isabela snorted and tossed her dark locks over her shoulder. Her golden jewelry clattered in jarring tones as she moved. 

”Furious.” Isabela replied, and she crossed her arms under her impressive bosom. “Kitten was too shy to say a word to Hawke about how she felt, and Hawke is as dense as a brick. But even a brick could see how much Merrill adores her. She has from the moment Hawke rescued her from a baker overpricing his goods in Lowtown. We just never thought Hawke would agree to marry that Starkhaven blockhead.” 

”He seems to be a good man.” Fenris said, and Isabela made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat, a mix between a groan and a growl. 

”What Rivani means is that he’s frustratingly good, and Hawke will tire of him. And a heartbroken Daisy is like seeing a hurt puppy. Makes you hurt too.” A warm, husky voice said, and Fenris turned to once again meet the eyes of Varric. Varric Tethras was a writer, adventurer, member of the dwarven Merchant’s Guild, and a general advisor and friend to Hawke. He smiled up at Fenris, and his eyes were as calculating and sharp as his companion’s. 

”Good fighting out there, Elf.” Varric said. “Blondie was hanging on the edge of his seat.” 

”Where is Anders?” Fenris asked, and Varric laughed, putting his hands up in a placating gesture. 

”He’s looking after a sick cat. He wanted me to make sure you came to the party and, I quote: ‘Don’t you dare scare him off, Varric! I like him!’” Varric chuckled, and there was a gleam in his eyes that seemed as if he wanted to know more of the story. Fenris didn’t particularly care that Varric was curious. He was simply relieved to know that Anders wasn’t avoiding him. 

”If he is in his clinic, I will go there.” Fenris decided. He was so lost in thought he did not notice the way Isabela and Varric looked at him before sharing long, considering looks. 

”Now hold on a minute, Lover Boy.” Varric said calmly, crossing his arms over his impressively broad and hirsute chest. 

”What are your intentions with our darling Anders?” Isabela asked. The gold on her neck and in her ears glittered cold, but her dark gold eyes were even colder than the metal that adorned her body. 

”Blondie might not seem like it sometimes, but he’s a sensitive soul.” Varric added. “We don’t want to see him break his heart, we’ve got enough love sickness going around.” He was joking, but there was a false levity to his voice that told Fenris that it was less of a joke than Varric made it seem. 

”I do not intend to break his heart.” Fenris told them. “We are- he was kind to me. I enjoyed spending time with him.” 

”That’s nice, but not really comforting.” Isabela said dryly. “Are you planning on charming the smalls off him and then disappearing into the dark? Anders deserves better, and I won’t stand by and-” 

”Varric! Isabela!” Anders’s familiar, wonderful voice cut through the interrogation like a knife. “Stop harassing my friend.” The feeling of soft fabric brushed against Fenris’s hand, and then Anders’s strong arm wrapped around Fenris’s shoulders. Fenris found that he welcomed the touch. Anders was a warm weight at his side. 

”I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Ser Wolf.” Anders said quietly. “I thought we could take a stroll around the gardens. It’s quieter there, with less _annoying busybodies_.” Anders emphasized the last words with a pointed glare towards Isabela and Varric. They seemed unruffled, and Anders gently led Fenris away from the ballroom and outside, away from the crowds of people. 

The gardens were peaceful. Most of the party goers stayed in the ballroom, near the food and light and company. And the few who wandered the gardens were generally looking for quiet, intimate places. The main paths were clear, and Anders took Fenris down one of the twisting paths that led to the kitchen gardens. 

”It’s not terribly romantic, walking about in the eggplants and pumpkins, but no one else would be here and I thought you might like spending time alone. Together.” Anders explained, fiddling with the sleeves of his robe. He was wearing some stiff creation of royal blue brocade woven with patterns of silver threads, but Fenris noticed that the leather belt around Anders’s waist was hastily tied together, which wasn’t like him at all during formal events. Anders took great care with his appearance when he was certain there would be many people who would see him. He must have been in a hurry. Fenris wondered, he hoped, Anders’s haste was because he wanted to see _him_. 

”I was told you were caring for a sick feline.” Fenris remarked. He wondered if the overly starched robes was another last minute decision resulting from Anders’s haste to attend the ball. He did not look comfortable. He kept fidgeting and tugging at his sleeves. But he was here, and that was what was important. 

Anders’s face brightened with delight at Fenris’s question. The fidgeting ceased when Fenris asked about the small, furry, feline patient in Anders’s clinic. His handsome face, the sharp cheekbones and square jawline, softened as he spoke. 

“Not sick, but a new mother! She has three darling little kittens now, and mother and babies are all healthy!” Anders said, his expression rapturous. 

”You are pleased.” Fenris said, and seeing Anders’s smile pleased him too. 

”It’s… animals are so good. Cats are so good.” Anders sighed wistfully. “A cat was my only companion when I was growing up. I was always in trouble, back in the Circle, but Messere Wiggums would keep me company when I was alone.” Anders’s face was pale in the moonlight, and his brown eyes were sad. Fenris could not bear to see the man who helped him, healed his wounds, made him smile and feel alive, he could not bear to see this man sad. But Anders shook his head and smiled at him. There was still sorrow in his eyes. 

”I’m sorry. I’m ruining your evening of triumph with bad memories.” Anders joked, his mouth quirking up in an attempted smile. 

”Not at all. I am glad you had a friend.” Fenris said softly. “I hope I can be one to you, Healer.” 

”I’d like that.” Anders said, and he took Fenris’s hand in his own. “Maybe I can convince you to share your name with me as we tour the gardens?” 

”You may try.” Fenris replied, and he let himself drop his head to Anders’s shoulder for a brief moment, his cheek brushing against the feather capelet before he lifted his head again. “You may succeed.” 

They walked among rows of squash and cucumbers as they talked, and if Anders slipped out of his silk dancing shoes to feel the rich earth between his toes, Fenris did not say a word. 

After all, Fenris had taken off his boots too. 

Anders talked more than Fenris. He had much to say. But Fenris did not find the endless chatter dull or irritating now. It was simply Anders’s way. Anders talked to fill the silence, as if it were a gaping hole that could never be filled. Fenris found peace in the quiet between conversations. But Anders did not talk to simply talk. Each sentence, every word, had some thread of meaning. It flowed and fluttered until it wove a tapestry of cohesive thought, and Fenris realized that the man he walked with was not as air-headed or flighty as he tried to seem. He was an intelligent man driven to do good. 

”I wanted to thank you for the ointment.” Fenris told Anders when they neared the fruit orchard. The apples on the trees were nearly ripe now, but Fenris knew the fruit would still be too tart for collecting. “My markings no longer ache.” 

”You need more treatment to fully heal the damage done to your body, Ser Wolf.” Anders said. “But I am glad you are healing.” Anders put his head against the rough bark of an enormous apple tree, and grinned down at Fenris. The moonlight turned his golden hair silver. 

”Have you ever climbed a tree, Ser Wolf?” Anders asked, mischief twinkling in his eyes like the stars. 

”No.” Fenris answered, for when would a slave have the time to climb trees? 

”Then I’ll just have to teach you.” Anders replied, and he dropped his shoes and shimmied up the trunk of the apple tree, his robes hiked up to reveal surprisingly shapely, pale legs underneath the brocade fabric. When Anders was perched on the lowest branch he pointed to a knot in the tree. 

”Grab that, and use the bark to support your feet. You’re strong, I’m sure you can manage to hoist yourself up here.” Anders instructed, and he coached Fenris through his short climb (“A little to the left- no, left foot up, then hoist yourself up to the branch- good!”). Once Fenris made his way to Anders’s branch, Anders led him on a merry chase up the tree until they were surrounded by leaves and nearly ripe apples. Anders grabbed a fruit and shared it with Fenris, the crisp fruit tart on their tongues. With the moonlight shining down on them Fenris leaned forward and kissed Anders. Fenris did not know much of kissing, but Anders was an eager teacher and Fenris was an attentive student. Fenris found that the sharp tasting apples were sweeter on Anders’s lips. 

-

When the sun rose Fenris had to leave again. It was harder to pull away this time, and he let go of Anders’s hand with great reluctance after they clambered down the apple tree. He would see him again, Fenris told himself. He would see Anders again. 

”Won’t you tell me your name? You have mine.” Anders murmured, lifting Fenris’s hand to brush a kiss across Fenris’s battered knuckles. His stubble scratched against the skin and sent thrills up Fenris’s spine. 

”I can’t. Not yet.” Fenris said, his voice hoarse. “Not yet, Healer.” 

”You still have to be a man of mystery.” Anders sighed, straightening his back so he once again towered over Fenris. “Please use my name, then?” 

”Names have power.” Fenris told Anders. “If I use yours, we can not go back to what we were before.” 

”I don’t want to go back.” Anders said, his eyes full of fire and his jaw set. “I have never felt so… so in tune with another person before. No one ever understood. No one ever tried.” 

No one understood Fenris before either. No one took his hand and taught him new things. He was always alone, and he always had to learn alone. But now Fenris had someone to learn from and with, and he no longer wanted to go back to what he once was. 

”Anders.” Fenris murmured, the name a sweet, strange sound in his mouth. “Anders.” 

”Yes.” Anders agreed. “Just Anders.” He squeezed Fenris’s hands in his own, and Fenris tightened his own grip. Only a few more moments, rising sun, Fenris pleaded. Only a few more moments, let this dawn last only a bit longer! But it could not, and Fenris knew he must leave. 

”Very well, Just Anders.” Fenris teased before leaning up and kissing Anders again, a hasty goodbye that startled the man into letting go of his hands. Fenris darted away before Anders could pull him back, and the two of them laughed at each other in the middle of the garden’s rhubarb patch. 

”I’ll wait for you!” Anders promised, shouting to Fenris’s retreating back. “I can be patient, you know!” 

Fenris grinned and, feeling lighter than he could ever remember, blew the man a kiss before running back to the stables and the life he had made for himself. 

-

Fenris returned to hauling water and chopping wood, and even took to running small errands outside the keep for extra coin. With what he collected he purchased cloth for his next outfit, for the final ball to celebrate the end of the final tournament. He quietly prepared himself, because he knew he must make a decision about where he was going. What he would do. Who he would be. There was too much of the slave inside him still to be truly free. He could not be anything to Anders when his first instinct was to lower his gaze and obey. What sort of partner or friend could Fenris be if his first reaction was to capitulate to Anders’s every whim? Fenris had to find himself before he could learn what he could have with Anders. 

He wanted to learn what sort of man he could be in Kirkwall. He had skills, Fenris knew. He was good enough at practical labor, and he was a great warrior. If he revealed himself as the winner of the tournaments, he could perhaps find a job as a mercenary, or even a city guard if he was fortunate. He could learn to read, he could make himself a better man, he could have a life here in Kirkwall. Perhaps he could even send for his family someday. It was wishful thinking, but Fenris had never felt so full of hope before. 

And then there was the matter of Anders. Fenris wanted to know what sort of man he could be if he stayed by Anders’s side. What could they become together? What could they accomplish? Fenris’s curiosity ate at him as he went through his daily tasks. His dreams gnawed on his thoughts as he practiced in the moonlight in the quiet places of the keep. His thoughts bubbled and brewed and boiled as he stitched together his final outfit, his last set of tunic and leggings. Fenris thought and dreamed and wondered. He never had the luxury to dwell on dreams before, but his dreams were filled with different lives he could lead as a free man in Kirkwall with Anders by his side. 

”You’ve been sighing all day, All Fur.” Orana remarked after what must have been the hundredth sigh that passed Fenris’s lips. “Are you well?” 

”As well as I can be.” Fenris replied absently. His mind was distracted, lost in the memories of warm brown eyes and soft touches. Orana let him wander in his thoughts and memories until the hundredth hundredth sigh and the tenth dropped bucket of water. Then she shooed him from the kitchen and demanded he go see the healer. 

”Maker help us, perhaps Healer Anders can find what ails you, All Fur!” Orana said. “You can give him this while you’re up there.” Orana hoisted up a large basket full of bread and handed it to Fenris. The bread was warm and fragrant. Orana must have just taken the loaves out of the oven. Fenris had not noticed. 

”He makes trips to the lower areas of the city, and he often brings food to his patients.” Orana explained. “I thought fresh bread might be welcome.” 

”I am sure it will be.” Fenris replied. “I will give it to the healer directly.” 

Fenris hurried up the stairs and slunk through the hallway, taking care to not be seen. He remembered Orana’s warnings of the Dowager being upset about riffraff in the keep, and Fenris remembered seeing the dignified woman presiding over her daughter’s betrothal celebrations. Being spotted would only raise a fuss, and Fenris had no desire to cause a scene when he would rather remain hidden. He walked down the hall and encountered no one, and hesitated when he reached the clinic. A large iron and glass lamp hung over the doorway, and a candle flickered inside. The Healer was in. Fenris’s hand was raised to knock on the door, but he heard voices arguing within and the slave in him demanded he wait and listen. So he waited. 

”Come on, Blondie. Give me five minutes with some parchment and a few of my contacts, and I can find your mystery man for you within a month!” Varric said coaxingly, the rich baritone timbre of his voice soothing on the ear. 

”Or give me five minutes alone with him at the next ball and I’ll _make_ him talk.” Lady Hawke’s brash voice cut through the thick wooden door like the chiming of many raucous bells. Someone else sighed loudly. 

”Or you two could leave it be and let Ser Wolf come to me on his own.” Anders stated. “I won’t have anyone chasing after him, you’ll do more harm than good. If he wants to spend time with me, he’ll do it without any prodding from you two.” 

Fenris could almost see the exasperated fondness crossing Anders’s face. His brown eyes would be warm but tired, and his face pale. Fenris had seen that face many times before, and he longed to enter the room and soothe the man’s worries. Of course he wanted to spend time with Anders. He didn’t want to leave in the first place! No one could chase him away from Anders. 

”What? You’ll just let him go, just like that?” Lady Hawke asked, sounding shocked. 

”You don’t seem to have any problems letting people go, Hawke.” Anders retorted, and Fenris heard that hint of anger in his voice, a low simmer that told him that Anders was barely controlling his temper. “Especially when letting go nets you greater prizes.” 

”You don’t know what I’m thinking or what I’m planning, Anders.” Lady Hawke replied. Her voice had gone quiet and icy. “But if you’re determined to bungle things with your lover, then I won’t stop you.” The door flung open and Hawke flounced out, her red and gray silk dress fluttering as she walked past Fenris and slammed the door shut. The sound echoed through the hallway along with her footsteps. She stopped for a moment, whirled around, and her pale blue eyes widened in surprise as she took in Fenris and his fur cloak. 

”All Fur! Here to see Anders?” Hawke asked. Her anger seemed to melt away into her typical friendly demeanor. 

”I was told to give the Healer this bread for his patients.” Fenris replied. Hawke rolled her eyes skywards and jabbed her thumb over her shoulder to gesture at the closed door. 

”Go ahead. He’s in a shit mood, though.” Hawke said. “He’s moping over that mystery warrior, so don’t take anything he says personally.” She flounced off before Fenris could reply. There was nothing Fenris could say anyhow. He waited for Hawke to turn the corner before he hesitantly knocked on the door. After a moment of silence, Anders yelled a muffled “Come in!” 

Fenris opened the door and looked out on the scene before him. Anders was slumped over his desk, wearing his ragged clothing, an old linen shirt and worn down wool leggings. His golden hair was clean and hanging loose over his shoulders. His back was turned to the door, and he did not turn around to greet him. 

”Low blow, Blondie.” Varric said. He was dressed in his typical outfit of a low cut dwarven style tunic and a long coat, and he had a large clay mug in his hands. Fenris could smell the sharp scent of mint from the doorway. Tea? 

”Doesn’t make it any less true.” Anders grumbled. He did not move from his position at his desk. 

”Harsh. Sometimes the truth can be left unsaid, Blondie.” Varric stated. “Even if you’re right about Hawke. She’s got her reasons.” 

”And she has no right to butt into my business!” Anders protested, and he turned around to glare at Varric. Fenris nearly dropped the bread basket to rush over and take Anders’s face in his hands, but he managed to restrain himself. Anders looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his normally bright eyes, and his cheeks were sunken in. His skin was ashen, and the stubble on his cheeks and jaw was unkept. But Anders’s eyes brightened when they fell on Fenris, and he offered him a smile. 

”You finally made it to the clinic, All Fur!” Anders said cheerfully, and he tried to get up on his feet. Varric gently pushed him back down into his seat. 

”Blondie isn’t doing so well. You might have to come back later.” Varric said kindly. Fenris knew that he could leave, that it would be strange if he stayed. What right did a ragged creature who worked in the kitchens have to take up the Healer’s precious time? He had no right. He was nothing to Anders when he was All Fur. 

”Andraste’s Tits, no! You stay right there, All Fur, I’ll see to you in a moment.” Anders ordered, but Fenris shook his head. He stepped a little closer and held the bread basket up for Anders’s inspection. 

”You should rest, Healer.” Fenris said. “I will come back another day, when you are well. Where should I put this basket?” 

”I’ll take that.” Varric offered. “I’ll put it on the cart you and your apprentice go on when you go to Darktown.” 

”Ah. Thank you, Varric.” Anders said, settling back down into his seat. “Tell Feynriel he’s on his own today. It’s just minor checkups, and I trust his judgement.” Fenris handed the basket to Varric, but even though his task was complete he did not leave. He would not leave until he was certain Anders was resting and would recover. 

”I’m shocked!” Varric clapped a hand to his chest in mock surprise. His other hand held the handle of the basket. “Anders, are you saying you’re letting someone else tend to your flock while you rest?” 

”Feynriel is a good lad. I trust him.” Anders repeated. “But I would feel a little more at ease if he has a pair of eyes on him.” 

”Fine, Blondie, I’ll watch. But you have to promise that you’ll get some sleep instead of pining over the loss of your mystery warrior.” Varric teased, and he was gone, his coat fluttering behind him as he retreated to the hall. Anders sighed and gave Fenris a weak smile. 

”My friends act as if I am on Death’s door.” Anders joked. “Do I truly look so terrible?” 

”You look unwell.” Fenris said. “Have you slept at all?” Anders chuckled and hoisted himself out of his chair. He stumbled over to a padded bench and sat down. 

”Not as much as I should, that much I know.” Anders sighed. “I suppose love does that to people. It’s called a sickness for a reason.” Love? Fenris felt a great warmth in his chest as the word echoed in his ears. Love. Anders loved him. And Fenris knew he felt something akin to affection and pleasure when he basked in Anders’s presence. But love was hard to place and hard to say. 

”Ah.” Fenris tried to hold his tongue, but words slip out before he can restrain them. “I have been told I have had the symptoms of an illness. But you are unwell, Healer. I will return later.” 

”Nonsense!” Anders insisted, gesturing towards a three legged stool topped with an absurdly overstuffed cushion. “I might not be able to do a full examination, but you must tell me your symptoms. I will do what I can for you.” Anders did not move from his place on the bench, but he placed his feet on the ground and leaned towards Fenris. He stared attentively and smiled patiently, and Fenris felt his face heat up as Anders tried to catch a glimpse of Fenris’s face under the wolf hood. 

”Very well.” Fenris took a seat on the stool and ducked his head to avoid Anders’s gaze. 

”There’s no need to feel shy, All Fur.” Anders said gently, as if he was coaxing one of his darling barn cats out of their hiding places. “I’ve heard of every ailment under the sun, and I won’t tell anyone. What is said here remains between us.” 

”I know.” Fenris replied. “That is, I have been told you are an excellent healer. You would never betray your patient’s trust.” Anders would never betray _Fenris’s_ trust. Anders said he would not pursue Ser Wolf. He said that he would wait for him. Fenris believed he would wait. 

”That’s high praise.” Anders murmured, then coughed. “Now, symptoms. Do you feel feverish? Woozy?” 

”I have difficulty concentrating. Orana says I have been sighing every day for the past week.” Fenris couldn’t remember sighing that much, but Orana was not the type of girl who spread falsehoods. “Some days my chest feels tight, and other days my feet are as light as birds.” 

”And other days they feel as heavy as stones.” Anders added. 

”Yes!” Fenris said eagerly, glad to know that he was not alone in his suffering.“I do not know how I should feel. One moment the world is full of laughter, and the next I am holding back bitter tears. The earth beneath my feet is unsteady. I have dropped several buckets of water, and I find myself tripping over my own feet.” 

”And you feel as if you’re drowning and there’s only one person who can give you air.” Anders finished, and Fenris nodded. 

“Lovesickness. Contagious, I swear. Hawke should never have thrown those betrothal festivities.” Anders grumbled as he stood up and shuffled over to a large cabinet and threw the door open. 

”You think I am in love, Healer?” Fenris asked. It was not love, Fenris was sure. Affection, regard, infatuation, yes to all of those, but not love. Not yet. 

”Yes. Sighing? Tripping over your feet? Lack of focus? All signs of lovesickness.” Anders said as he searched the contents of the cabinet. “And we aren’t the only ones suffering, All Fur. There’s Lady Merrill, who skitters around the keep with her sad eyes and soft sighs now that Hawke left her for that Vael prat.” 

”Did Lady Hawke reject her?” Fenris asked, his curiosity insatiable. He saw Merrill in the gardens, and he watched as the young woman wove a garland of daisies and bravely tried to be cheery as Isabela and a giant woman with flaming red hair sat with her. He would have said hello, but the wood needed chopping and he did not wish to intrude. A stranger had no business inquiring after her business, and All Fur was a stranger. 

”They were never together in the first place, but it was very clear that Merrill was partial to Hawke. And we all thought Hawke felt the same, but evidently not.” Anders sighed and emerged from the cabinet with a tall glass jar in hand. It was filled with small dried leaves. He held the jar out to Fenris, and Fenris saw that they were not only little leaves, but bits of dried flowers as well. 

”Tea. Chamomile and lavender will help you relax.” Anders explained. “Brew a cup of this before you sleep and drink it. It isn’t much of a cure, but it can help you sleep. It will help.” Fenris took extra care to cover his hands with the ends of his fur cloak before he took the jar from Anders. It was heavy in his hands. Fenris’s heart was heavy as he realized that he must say goodbye to Anders again. The farewells were the hardest. 

”I do not like taking your tea from you, Healer.” Fenris said softly. “You have a greater need than I.” Anders looked so tired, and Fenris wished he could stay here and tend to him until he was well again. But he was afraid. How easy would it be to take care of Anders once, and then slowly allow Anders rule over his life? Fenris still did not know how to be his own man. He could not stay. If he did, Fenris would never leave. 

”No.” Anders said with a breathless laugh. “No, All Fur, I will be fine. I can make more. I hope you are successful with your love.” 

”I hope you are as well, Healer.” Fenris murmured. He clutched the jar to his chest. Move, Fenris, he told himself. Move your legs and leave Anders to recover. But of course he could not simply leave. 

”You do not find me foolish, to feel affection for another when I am- I am-” Fenris struggled to find his words and explain himself. 

”When you are what?” Anders asked gently. 

”When I look as I do.” Fenris finally said. “I must look odd to you. To everyone.” 

”The cloak is strange, but I’m sure you have your reasons to always wear it.” Anders replied after a moment of silence. “And appearances mean nothing, All Fur. You’re as free to love as much as anyone else.” 

”I see.” Fenris murmured. Anders’s words touched him. Free to love. It was something he could hardly imagine, but he wanted to believe it. 

”Rest well, Healer.” Fenris murmured. “Thank you for your kindness.” 

”Take care, All Fur.” Anders called back, and Fenris walked away, holding the tea to his chest. 

-

Fenris drank the tea that evening. He could find no rest, and with nothing to occupy his mind or hands he had no choice but to drink and sleep. The floral tea was warm and sweet on his tongue, and when Fenris set his head on his pallet he found himself quickly falling into slumber and dreaming. 

Fenris walked through an olive grove. His feet sank into the sandy warm soil, and short scrub grass scratched at his bare calves. It was the olive grove on his former master’s estate. Fenris could see the ocean from where he walked. If he walked further north, he would reach the slave quarters. He could reach his family, reach his home- but it wasn’t his home. He did not have a home. There was no where and no one for Fenris to return to. Where were his mother and sister now? How could he even find them? And what were the chances that they still lived? Fenris frowned and stared out at the ocean. This place only served to bring back bad memories. 

”You have a long face. Are you lost?” A cheerful voice called out to him. Fenris turned to find a young boy leaning against the twisted trunk of an olive tree. The boy grinned, revealing a missing tooth and dimples. He seemed familiar, from his dark skin the match to Fenris’s own and tousled dark hair that fell into his green eyes. Even the boy’s eyebrows were as dark and thick as Fenris’s, and they were shaped much the same. And when the sun struck the boy’s dark hair, it glowed auburn. 

”I am not lost.” Fenris replied. “I am merely passing through.” He would wake soon enough, and the memories of the old Tevinter country estate would fade away with the rising of the sun. 

”I don’t see why you’re here, though.” The boy remarked. “You left ages ago. You never came back. Why are you here now?” His bright eyes searched Fenris’s face, and Fenris was once again struck with the strange sense that he _knew_ this child. 

”I did not mean to come here.” Fenris replied. “But now I am here I wonder why I left.” Had he never left this place, he may still have his family. Danarius would have never had him. But he would still be a slave. Fenris could not change the past, but he could be sorry for how it turned out. His freedom came at a terrible price, and Fenris longed to find what little family he had left in the world. 

”But you are free!” The boy urged, dark auburn hair falling into eyes as lush as his homeland’s tropical forests. “You may go where you like! You may travel the world and do as you please! You are free and there are no chains to bind you! You are free!” 

”That may be so.” Fenris murmured, mostly to himself. “But chains are not so easily broken.” He thought of Anders and the fear he felt when he wondered if his past made him more likely to kneel before another mage. He did not want to be a slave or a beast. Fenris wanted to be a free man. 

”I don’t see why not.” The boy said petulantly. “Aren’t Mother and Varania free because of us? One person’s life for two sounds more than fair.” And Fenris now knew who this boy was. 

”It was endless suffering. It changes people, Leto. Freedom has its costs.” Fenris said solemnly. “I cannot be what I once was.” 

”You are free!” His child self laughed giddily at the word and flung his arms out as if he could embrace the world in his skinny limbs. “Free free free! Free as the birds that fly over the bay and dive for fish! You can dive for fish, you are free!” Fenris wondered if his younger self even heard what he had said. 

”I am not free. Chains do not have to be physical to bind us.” Fenris said. “I must learn to be free.” 

”A bird breaks from their shell and knows how to fly. They may not be able to at first, but they know.” His child self said cryptically, his mouth twisting into a smile that seemed too old for his round face. “And a fish knows where to swim when the waters change, but they are not taught.” 

”Leave me be, vision!” Fenris growled out, for he knew that this elf child was not speaking of seabirds and fish. 

”You know how to be free. But you are too afraid to reach for it.” The boy concluded. 

”You know nothing of my fears.” Fenris retorted. The boy was silent for a moment, and there was a gleam in his eyes that was old. Too old. Ancient. The boy changed his tactics, and approached Fenris. His bare feet made little sound as he walked across the sandy earth. 

”I see how you look at him.” The boy said as he approached, his eyes lit with an unholy mischief. “All red and gold and pale ivory- you look and look when he’s not looking at you, and you long for him.” 

”Quiet!” Fenris ordered. His voice wavered when he barked out the order. 

”And you wonder if he would dare to touch you, if he knew who you were.” The boy sounded sympathetic now. “You wonder if he would fear you, and it hurts you to think he would not want you back.” 

”You know nothing of what I feel!” Fenris hissed, and it was a lie. Who knew him better than himself? Of course his younger self would know of his inner conflict and his desire for Anders. 

”It is no crime to love.” His child self consoled him. “And you are free to pursue him, Leto.” 

”I am not Leto!” Fenris protested. He had not been Leto in many, many years. 

”But you are.” The boy said with a sage nod. “You are and always will be Leto. You are a boy in love, and you would give your love everything. That is who you are, Leto. A boy in love.” 

”That boy is dead!” Fenris screamed. He jolted forward to wipe the gleeful smirk on the boy’s face, and those green green eyes flashed pale blue and Fenris catapulted into the waking world. His room, the small pantry tucked under the kitchen stairs, was filled with the warm glow of the coals of the fire across the kitchen. Fenris grasped the rough sacking that made up his bed in his hands. The scratchy wool blanket had fallen off him at some point in the night. Fenris tried to control his breathing, and he realized that he was shaking. 

”I can never be Leto again.” Fenris whispered to himself. “I can never be Leto again.” And for the first time since Leto died, Fenris wept. He wept for Leto, that idealistic child who thought he could bargain with a magister and somehow come out of the deal alive and unspoiled. He wept for his death under the knife, a death comprised of a thousand expert cuts. He wept for his rebirth as Fenris, as a scarred monster meant to destroy. He wept for those blood filled days and the many, many men and women he killed. He wept for the nights under Danarius and his cold, cruel touch, where he was nothing more than a receptacle for his master’s pleasure. He wept for his mother and sister whom he missed, and knew that they were forever lost to Leto and forever lost to him. He wept, for he was in a foreign land and he had never felt so alone. He wept for he had met a mage, a strange man of whimsy and fury and light and dark, and he despite his reservations he had fallen in love with him. He wept for what could never be. And most of all, Fenris wept because it was his right to cry into his ragged pillow and indulge in his sorrows. He was free and Fenris could weep, for every living thing is allowed to feel. And when the weeping exhausted his body, Fenris rolled over and slept, the tears tacky on his cheeks. 

-

Fenris felt better after his dream and after he cried. Having the opportunity to cry without punishment was a reminder of his freedom. It was a small action, but it was still the act of a free man. Fenris found he enjoyed the emotional release. It eased the weight he carried in his heart. He may not be Leto anymore and he may never find his mother and sister again, but he had a chance to make a new home. He had a chance to make a new family with Anders, and he was closer to becoming someone worthy of Anders’s regard. He was learning to become his own person, free of any interference from Danarius, Hadriana, or any other magister. He would rule his own life and make his own choices, and he would choose Anders freely if Anders would have him. 

When the morning of the final tournament dawned, Fenris waited for the other servants to leave the kitchen before he snuck out of the kitchens with his armor and weapons. For a final time he strapped on his breastplate and put on his gauntlets. He carried his sword on his back and his assigned page boy (a young half elf who must have been around the age of six with dark blue eyes and golden curls) escorted him from the training grounds to the arena, and he faced his opponents to first blood one final time. 

The competitors had trained hard, and Fenris found himself enjoying the challenge. Several of the warriors were particularly skilled, like the woman with the scars on her face and the high cheekbones, or the giant swordsman with piercing blue eyes and a sullen expression. Fenris stood victorious once again, but it was a victory that Fenris felt was well earned. He worked for the glory of this win, and as he stood in the arena with his gauntlets glimmering like stars in the black sky Fenris scanned the crowds for Anders’s reddish gold hair. For a moment he thought he spied Anders’s tall, thin form standing by the armory tent, but he was swept up in the crowd before he could look further. Fenris took the earliest opportunity to disappear and ran back to the kitchens, flinging on his fur cloak. He would dress for the final ball in the evening after the servants left, and he would enjoy this final night with Anders. And afterwards? Fenris took a deep breath and washed the dirt from his hands and face. 

Afterwards he would find a way to reveal himself to Anders, and they would move on from there. 

-

Fenris waited for the sun to set and the moon to rise before he retreated back to his room and prepared himself. He brushed his hair until it shined and pulled on his final outfit. The leggings had a simple pattern of swooping dark blue swallows stitched down the sides of his legs, and he wore his thin soled boots over the dark leather. The tunic was cut in a low V shape in the front and tied together with a thick cord of silver silk. The fabric was a rich dark blue scattered with tiny stars embroidered in silver thread. Fenris once again put on the circlet of silver wire and moonstones, threw the cloak over his shoulders, and raced out of the kitchens before he could be seen. He hid the cloak in the stables again, and slunk into the ballroom to join in in the festivities. 

The party goers stared and whispered as he passed, and Fenris ignored them all. He already spotted Anders across the hall. His thin form was draped in burgundy robes stitched with gold thread and a cream colored feather capelet. Anders’s hair was brushed back into a loose tail hanging down his back. He was speaking with Varric, and there was a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. But when Anders caught sight of Fenris his eyes brightened and his wrinkles smoothed out. 

”Ser Wolf!” Anders called out as he crossed the marble floor. Fenris met him halfway, and Anders took his hands in his own. 

”Anders.” Fenris murmured. He searched Anders’s face and noticed that, underneath the artfully applied powders and kohl, Anders looked tired. “Have you slept?” Anders chuckled and pulled Fenris to the edge of the room so they could sit on a low bench covered in red velvet cushions. 

”I didn’t disguise it well enough, did I?” Anders asked once they had some form of privacy. “I thought I had done well. Not even Varric noticed!” 

”I am observant.” Fenris said, and he squeezed Anders’s hands in his own. “And I have had my own troubles sleeping. I missed our conversations.” 

”So did I!” Anders chuckled and leaned closer until his lips brushed against the shell of Fenris’s ear. “Among other things.” Fenris felt his face heat up at the way Anders’s voice lingered on things, suggesting all the activities they shared together the last time they met. They were only a few kisses, Fenris told himself. He had had far more sexual experiences than a few kisses. But those kisses were intimate, and Fenris had never shared intimacy before. He never had a _lover_. 

”I missed you.” Fenris confessed shyly. “Tease me if you must, but it is true.” 

”Why would I tease you, Ser Wolf?” Anders asked. His voice was gentle. “I missed you as well.” They watched the other party goers flit about the ballroom, and Fenris caught glimpses of people he recognized. There was Hawke and her beau across the way, and Lady Amell sat on a couch surrounded by well wishers. Isabela and Varric stood near the casks of wine and ale with the tall, blue eyed warrior with the sullen face from the tournament. The giant red haired woman walked past them and shook her head when Isabela offered her a tankard of ale. There was the woman with the cheekbones and scars, and she was speaking with a tall man with curly golden hair. And Fenris saw Merrill lurking behind the potted plants again, staring at Hawke with large, sad eyes. 

”I feel sorry for her.” Fenris murmured as he watched Merrill crouch behind ferns and flowers as Hawke swept by. “Love can be painful.” The weeks away from Anders, the weeks of agonizing over his ability to step out of the spectre of Danarius and become his own person, it all rushed back to him. Fenris wondered how Anders suffered, and he wished his own insecurities and faults had not caused Anders such pain. 

”Love can be painful.” Anders replied, squeezing Fenris’s hand. “But anything worth feeling and doing will hurt sometimes.” They were silent for some time as they watched the guests dance and chatter. They did not elaborate on love and the feelings they shared between them, but they understood each other. There was feeling between them, something that went beyond basic attraction or friendship. They could take their time and discover what they meant to each other. Fenris noticed how other guests looked at the pair they made. They paraded past their shadowed corner and pretended they didn’t exist, but then they would stare to make sure their snubs were observed. 

”Want to go somewhere more private?” Anders suggested with a smile as another guest glared at them. “Away from the all the staring eyes and snobby people?” 

”Gladly.” Fenris murmured, and he followed Anders when he tugged him out of his seat. They hurried out of the ballroom like a pair of thieves and ran down a hall Fenris never traveled through. Anders laughed as they ran, and he tried to muffle the sound in the sleeve of his robe. 

”Where are we headed?” Fenris asked, breathless and grinning when they turned a corner. Their feet slipped and slid across the waxed marble floors. 

”The library.” Anders explained. “No one will be there now. Not many people find musty parchment and leather romantic. I do, but I’m a bit strange. Reading tales from distant lands was always so… well, _exciting_ , you know!” 

”I would not know.” Fenris replied, Anders’s frankness coaxing an honest response from him. “I cannot read.” 

Anders stopped in front of a set of dark wooden doors and stared down at Fenris. His great brown eyes had gone wide with shock, and something akin to horror or revulsion crossed his features. 

”Fucking Tevinter.” Anders swore quietly as he reached out and brushed a lock of Fenris’s hair behind his ear. His hand lingered to cup Fenris’s cheek, and Fenris leaned into that warmth and softness. “Should we go somewhere else?” 

”No.” Fenris said. “I would have never been allowed in a library in Tevinter. I take pleasure in doing what was once forbidden.” He pulled away from Anders’s embrace and opened one of the doors before he gestured inside. 

”If you would be so kind to show me the library, Anders?” Fenris asked politely. Anders laughed at the request and looped his arm through Fenris’s. 

”My pleasure, Ser Wolf.” Anders replied, and he walked him through tall shelves towards a roaring fireplace. When Fenris spotted a low table surrounded by cushions with a bottle of wine and two goblets on its surface he chuckled. Anders’s casual suggestion to abscond to the library was not as casual as it first appeared. 

”How long have you had this planned?” Fenris asked. Anders’s bright brown eyes sparkled in the firelight, and he led Fenris over to the table and helped him sit down. He then gracefully took a seat next to him before removing his feather capelet. The creamy ostrich feathers brushed against Fenris’s silken tunic and neck. 

”Oh, the day after the last ball.” Anders joked once he settled into the cushions. “I like having you all to myself, without my friends harassing you.” Anders reached over the table to pour wine, filling up the crystal goblets until they gleamed like two giant rubies. He would have never been allowed to drink wine in Tevinter. 

”They care for you.” Fenris murmured after he took a goblet and sipped on the wine. “You have good friends.” He did not forget the conversation he overheard in Anders’s clinic. Anders’s friends would always keep an eye on him. They would protect him. Fenris was glad Anders had such loyal and loving friends in his life. At least he did not suffer their separation alone. 

”They mean well, but they are such busybodies!” Anders complained. “You have no idea what I had to do to sneak all this into the library! Hawke would have never let me be if she found out!” He sipped his wine and sighed deeply. Fenris opened his mouth to say that he knew, that he heard it all, but caught himself before he spoke and gave himself away. 

”Lady Hawke does seem to have eyes everywhere.” Fenris remarked. Hawke and her family had their fingerprints all over Kirkwall. No matter where one turned, one saw the influence of the Hawkes. 

”Oh, it’s not Hawke you need to worry about.” Anders said cheerfully. “It’s Varric. He’s got spies everywhere, and they tell him everything. Then he tells Hawke, and she’s the one who takes action.” 

”And so you sneak away when you can.” Fenris replied. 

”Yes.” Anders said. “I would have found another place if I knew the library would upset you, Ser Wolf.” 

”Do not blame yourself. It does not make me uncomfortable.” Fenris set his wine down on the table and took Anders’s hand in his own. “I like it here.” The library was comfortable. It was quiet. It was soothing. Fenris only wished he could enjoy the space the way others did. He wished he could read the tomes and scrolls so many others could read. He wanted to experience what free men could experience. He wanted so much. 

”Tell me if I’m overstepping my bounds, but I could teach you to read.” Anders offered. “Now that the tournaments are over, I don’t know if you’ll return to your home. But if you don’t…” 

”I am undecided.” Fenris told Anders. “I do not intend to return to Tevinter. I will not be enslaved again. But I do not know where to go.” And Anders dangled a tempting lure before him: the gift of literacy. Anders himself was temptation enough, with his warmth and mischief and his kind eyes and wicked grins. Fenris longed to stay, but what would staying do to him? 

”There will always be a place for you at my clinic.” Anders promised. “The door is open for you, even without a lit lantern.” 

”I will be a slow learner.” Fenris warned Anders as he leaned in and pressed his lips to Anders’s scruffy cheek. “I have no experience with letters and book learning.” 

Anders chuckled and turned his head to capture Fenris’s mouth with his own. Fenris felt his heart flutter as his eyes slowly shut. After a moment of softness and a hint of heat Anders pulled away, his breath warm against Fenris’s face. 

”You are fortunate, Ser Wolf.” Anders whispered. “I have _plenty_ of experience.” 

Anders found a small book of simple stories and a sheaf of parchment. He coached Fenris through the formation of his letters with a patience Fenris envied. Anders wrapped an arm around Fenris’s shoulders and guided his clumsy hands as he scratched out letters with a charcoal stick. Anders even read the short stories to Fenris and pointed out which symbols stood for which sounds, and how those sounds combined into words. It was enough to make Fenris’s head spin. 

”Want to learn how to sign your name?” Anders asked casually, and Fenris laughed as he leaned against Anders’s shoulder. The wine, conversation, and Anders’s infinite patience had soothed Fenris until he felt as if he could fall asleep in this small world he shared with Anders. 

”Not yet.” Fenris told the man, his mouth stretching out in a satisfied smile. “Show me your name instead.” And so Anders wrote out his name in graceful loops on the page, and Fenris flushed in shame at the clumsy mess of scribbles that was his own writing. He had never failed at a task before, but here was his dismal attempt for the world to point and jeer at. 

”I fear you have wasted your time tutoring me, Anders.” Fenris said lightly. “My hand is more accustomed to a sword than a pen.” 

”Nonsense, Ser Wolf. You are a fine student!” Anders insisted. “Best I’ve ever had, in any case. Will you write down the letters and tell me their sounds again?” So Fenris scribbled out the letters and recited their sounds, and Anders continued to praise him as he worked. As the night turned to day, Fenris saw how his letters slowly straightened up as he practiced. He gathered the parchment together and held onto the charcoal stick. He could write. He would learn to read. Soon he would know more, and he would be able to live like any other free man. Anders unwittingly gave him the key to escape his chains. Fenris could go anywhere and be anything now, and all he wished to do was stay by Anders’s side. 

”The sun is rising.” Anders commented, his voice soft. 

”It is.” Fenris replied. 

”Must you go?” Anders asked, and there were tears welling up in his brown eyes. 

”Yes. But I will return.” Fenris promised as he brushed Anders’s tears away from his cheeks. He would return as a free man, with money and literacy and a place in the world. He would return to Anders and give him everything. 

”I’ll hold you to it, Ser Wolf.” Anders murmured before he kissed Fenris again. When he pulled away Fenris followed, chasing his kisses and catching Anders’s mouth with his own. 

”I will come to you.” Fenris murmured against Anders’s skin. “Nothing will stop me from returning to your side.” He held onto Anders’s hands and wondered if he could ever let go. But he had to leave, and soon. He would have to return to his work in the kitchens, and Anders would return to his clinic. 

”I’ll wait.” Anders promised. “I- hold on a moment.” Anders dropped Fenris’s hands and reached up to his ear, fumbling around until he lowered his hands and dropped a heavy object into Fenris’s outstretched palm. He looked down at the earring in the center of his palm. It was a small circle of gold that gleamed in his dark hand. It was worn down as if it were an old and treasured object, and Fenris couldn’t understand why Anders would give such a beloved object to _him_. 

”Consider it a token of my affection.” Anders said, and he sounded so fond as he spoke. The little lines around his eyes wrinkled up, and he smiled down at Fenris. “Just so you remember that I care about you, Ser Wolf.” 

Fenris curled his fingers around the earring. “Is it strange, that we have come to care for each other so quickly?” He had never experienced anything like what he felt for Anders. 

”It happens. Love rarely makes sense.” Anders explained. “But you’re brave and tough and clever, and you haven’t let your past stop you from trying to grow as a person. I thought you could use my earring as a reminder that I love you.” 

”Then I will treasure it.” Fenris said, and he kissed Anders one last time before departing from the library. 

Sneaking out of the keep and back to the stables was a trying task, but Fenris managed to escape and throw his cloak over his clothing. He retreated to his room under the stairs and returned to his work in the kitchens. And when the night came at last Fenris stared at the golden earring Anders gave him. He traced his finger along the smooth metal surface, making circles and circles in his palm. The repetitive motion soothed him into sleep, and he drifted off into dreams with the rise of the moon. 

Fenris dreamed of a small, dark room of stone and white plaster with a hard packed dirt floor scattered with straw. A fire burned in the clay brick fireplace in the corner, and a woman sat before it on a rug. She was repairing a linen shirt, Fenris observed, her brown fingers picking apart the seams and letting them out. The firelight caught the bright red in the curls of her hair, red streaked with strands of gray. And when Fenris looked closer, he recognized the woman’s strong nose, the proud jut of her chin, the thin dark brows that swooped like a swallow’s wings on her high forehead. When she looked up to him her large green eyes brightened with joy, and Fenris recognized her eyes. His eyes. 

This was his mother. 

”Leto.” The dream vision of his mother crooned. “Leto, come close so I may see you.” 

”I am not Leto.” Fenris confessed, tears welling up in his eyes. “I do not know who I am.” How could his mother welcome him with such warmth and joy after all he had done? After all the killing, the running, how could she want him back? How could she want him? 

The woman smiled warmly, gently, just as Fenris remembered. “I know who you are. You are my son, and no matter what name you take you will always be my son.” She opened her arms to him then, setting her work aside, and Fenris came to her, dropping to his knees and letting the small woman hold him as if he was a child again. He let himself sob into the crook of her neck, and when his mother carded his rough hair through her narrow fingers he only cried harder. 

”Oh my darling. Darling boy, how I’ve worried over you.” His mother whispered, and Fenris felt her tremble in his arms. “You have grown so much! You are so strong and handsome, with your father’s height!” She pulled away then and brushed his hair out of his eyes, cupping his cheek. Her fingers were rough and warm. 

”But those are my eyes. My mother’s eyes, and now your sister’s and yours.” She laughed and pulled him back into his arms. “My darling boy!” 

”Mother.” Fenris croaked out. There was so much to say, so much to tell her, but Fenris decided to tell his mother what was most important. “Mother, I am in love.” 

”Oh my dear heart, how wonderful!” His mother laughed with delight. “Do they know?” 

”No. I am afraid.” Fenris confessed. “I fear that love will make me weak. That it will hurt.” 

”Ah.” His mother sighed and hugged him tightly. “Love is a powerful, frightening thing. It can hurt as much as it heals. But I have never regretted loving. Even when your father was taken from us, I was grateful for the time we had. Tell me who it is you love.” 

”He is a mage. A healer.” Fenris said, pulling away from his mother to look her in the eyes. “He is dedicated to his work, and he healed my markings.” 

”A healer?” His mother took his broader hands in her small ones. “He must be patient. It is trying work.” 

”He can be patient. He is also proud, and kind, and has a strange sense of humor.” Fenris found it easy to speak of Anders and his oddities. “He adores cats, and will walk across the yard cooing at the mousers while getting mud all over his robes. Even when he scolds his patients his touch is gentle.” Fenris’s voice turned softer as he continued. 

”He led me through different dances and didn’t tease me for my mistakes. He taught me how to climb a tree. He’s teaching me to read. To write.” Fenris said, the words pouring out of his mouth. “He speaks his mind and speaks often, but he listens when I speak. He hears me and responds, and he treats me like a person. He always has.” 

”And he says he loves me.” Fenris told his mother. “He says I am gentle and clever and he loves me.” 

”And I see how you love him.” His mother held him tightly one last time. “So wake up, dearest, and tell your healer of your love.” 

When Fenris woke up he still felt the warmth of his mother’s embrace. 

-

When he entered the kitchen in the afternoon carrying a pile of logs in his arms, Fenris found Anders’s apprentice trotting at Orana’s heels and pleading with her. Fenris set the logs near the fire and listened to his soft begging. 

”Please, Orana! The healer is truly ill this time!” Feynriel protested. Orana walked around the giant oak table with a bowl wrapped in her arm as she beat egg whites into a frothy foam. Her skirts swept across the stone floor as she walked, and Feynriel clumsily followed her quick, dainty steps. 

”That’s what I’ve been told constantly!” Orana retorted. “But there are important guests at the keep and I can’t be spared to make another meal for anyone, even if it is Messere Anders!” 

Fenris felt his blood turn icy in his veins. Anders was ill? He had looked tired the last time they met, and he had said he was not sleeping well. And Fenris could never forget how Anders ran himself ragged in his clinic, as if he was running from ghosts. He always looked so _haunted_. 

”But Orana!” Feynriel cried out. “I have tried everything! His friends are all out on business and can’t come and see him! I don’t know what to do, and Messere Anders insists that I go to the lower city and check on his patients instead of tend to him!” 

Selfless, foolish Anders. He always cared for others before himself. Enough was enough, Fenris decided. If Anders refused to care for himself, then it was up to him to care for Anders until he was well again. Fenris stepped forward and cleared his throat. 

”I may be of some assistance.” He offered. 

”All Fur! Thank the Maker!” Orana sighed with relief. “Can you make something quick and easy for the healer and take it up? We’ve all got our hands tied up here preparing the evening meal.” 

”What about the Dowager?” Feynriel hissed, and Orana set the bowl down on the table and waved her hand in the air. 

”Busy with Lady Hawke’s dress fitting. She’s so distracted she wouldn’t notice a nug sitting in her tea parlor- and don’t you get any ideas Feynriel, she’s a fine enough mistress and needs no more trouble!” Orana scolded the now smirking boy and chased him out of the kitchen. Fenris turned his attentions to the larder and began to pull out ingredients. He could not cook much, but he knew a few recipes that his mother fed him when he was ill. He set a pot of water over the fire to boil and filled the pot with rice. He found the egg basket and a bottle of milk, and raided the spices for the familiar tastes of his homeland: cinnamon and star anise, and a little sugar to sweeten the porridge. He cooked the rice until it was soft, and mixed it with the milk and eggs until sticky and cooked. He added the spices, and the kitchen smelled like his mother’s kitchen in that tiny whitewashed hut in his memories and dreams. 

”Rice porridge?” Orana asked. “That is a customary dish in Tevinter, for sick children. My father made it for me when I was young.” Her green eyes were filled with questions, and Fenris saw a bit of understanding cross her features when she caught sight of his hands. Lyrium lined hands. There was only one elf in Tevinter, perhaps in all the world, with hands like his. Orana tried to peer under his wolf hood, but Fenris ducked away. 

”I will bring this to Anders.” Fenris said firmly, gesturing to the pot of rice porridge. Orana hesitantly prepared a tray. Her hands fluttered about like butterflies as she set down a bowl, a mug of tea, and a simple cloth napkin on the tray. 

”I was… when I was a child my father and I were sold to Hadriana’s household.” Orana murmured as she poured the porridge into the bowl, her hands steady as her voice shook with tears. “She was a harsh mistress, and we all feared her. She traded us to another master for a favor. That master set us free when he entered the Free Marches.” 

”You were fortunate.” Fenris said. Hadriana had never been the type of woman to let even one of her slaves leave her service. The favor she required must have been great indeed, if she let not one but two slaves out of her chains. 

”Yes.” Orana replied. “I was young, but I remembered my time in that house. I remember the tales of the Wolf of Minrathous. And when I heard that Hadriana and her master were killed by the warrior they tried to tame, I lit candles for my father’s memory and for the Wolf and his escape. And when I saw that mysterious warrior fight in the arena I knew I saw the Wolf. I wanted to thank him for doing what we all wanted but were unable to do. But I was afraid of him, just as I was when I was a child.” She reached out and patted Fenris’s hand, her tiny hand even more childlike when paired with his. 

”I am ashamed that I feared you when I was small.” Orana whispered. “But I don’t fear you now. You have been good for us. And if the healer doesn’t treat you well I’ll bash him upside the head with a frying pan.” She set a silver spoon on top of the napkin and handed the tray to Fenris. 

”That would be unnecessary.” Fenris replied. “But I thank you for your concern, Orana.” 

”Well, off you go!” Orana said cheerfully, shooing him up the stairs with little flicks of her hand. “Give the healer his meal!” 

Fenris hurried through the halls of the keep, turning corners and avoiding nobles as every step took him closer to Anders. Anders was unwell. Anders was probably lonely. Anders needed him. Anders needed _all_ of him. 

Fenris knew what he had to do. 

He reached into his tunic and pulled out Anders’s earring before tucking it into the cloth napkin. Anders needed him, and no one else would do. Fenris finally found himself at the clinic’s door. The lantern hanging above the doorway was snuffed out, but Fenris heard the sound of shuffling feet within, so he knocked on the wooden doorway and waited for a response. 

”Come in!” Anders called out, and Fenris shifted the tray and stepped inside before shutting the door behind him. The room was darker than usual. The shutters were drawn and there were a few candles lighting the room. A fire was going in the fireplace, but it had burned down to coals and ashes. A large armchair was covered in blankets, and a large orange cat took up the seat across from it. The cots were empty, as were the benches. Fenris stepped further in and looked around of Anders, but there was no trace of the man. 

”Healer?” Fenris called out. “I brought you food.” 

”All Fur?” Anders asked, and the pile of blankets perched on the chair near the fire moved. A blonde head popped out of the mass of blankets and quilts. “Is that you?” 

”Yes.” Fenris answered. “There is food for you. You should eat it.” 

”Can’t argue with that sound logic.” Anders grumbled, and the pile of blankets and Anders shuffled over to Fenris. Fenris darted away and set the tray down on a small table covered in papers and books. 

Fenris tried to read some of the words on a few of the papers, and mouthed out the syllables and sounds he saw. Rye-ting X-er-size-ez. Writing Exercises. A closer look at the papers revealed more words, words strung together into sentences. And next to these sentences were crude illustrations, pictures of cats and dogs and- Fenris’s cheeks flushed with pleasure- an apple tree with a cat lounging in the branches and a dog curled up at the base of the trunk. A half finished illustration was the cat curled up with the same dog on a cushion in front of a roaring fire. It was terribly sweet. 

”Thank you for the food, All Fur.” Anders said. He collapsed in the chair in front of the food and breathed in deeply. “Smells delicious.” 

”You must eat. You look unwell.” Fenris ordered. Anders looked pale. His blonde hair was stringy, and the half moon circles under his eyes were the color of bruised plums. It was one of his bad days, one of those days where Anders would wander the halls and look utterly lost in his dark thoughts. But Anders’s legs were clearly too weak to support him, and his friends were not there to pull him out of his sorrows. Fenris would stay and care for Anders. He would stay as long as Anders would have him. 

”I haven’t slept, but I am… I will be better.” Anders said. “With time.” 

”I was told to stay and care for you until your apprentice returns.” Fenris lied. He would not leave Anders alone until he was fed, washed, and tucked into bed. 

”There really is no need to bother-” Anders began to say, but Fenris cut off the protest before it could truly begin. 

”Think of it as a thank you, for all the help you’ve given me.” Fenris interrupted. He continued in a softer, kinder voice. “Please, Healer. Let me take care of you.” 

”Very well, All Fur, if you must.” Anders replied, but he smiled as he spoke. Fenris hid his smiles under his hood and he turned to fetch water from the dwarven engineered plumbing that was recently installed in the clinic. He could heat a few buckets and encourage Anders to take a bath, and then he would urge Anders to sleep. Caught in his planning, Fenris did not notice how Anders lifted the spoon off the tray. He did not see how the firelight caught the glimmer of gold tucked into the napkin. He did not realize that Anders slowly unfolded the plain linen cloth to reveal a worn down gold hoop that was as familiar to him as his own hand. What Fenris noticed, what he _heard_ was Anders’s small, surprised gasp. 

”All Fur.” Anders called out. His voice sounded strained. “Where did you get this?” And Fenris knew, he _knew_ that Anders had found the earring tucked into the napkin. He could lie, perpetuate the disguise for longer. He wasn’t certain if he was ready for Anders to know him, know _all_ of him. He was not All Fur the humble kitchen servant or Ser Wolf the mysterious warrior, but Fenris. Fenris was a complicated being. A flawed being. But if he did not tell Anders now, when would he ever? 

He would do it. 

”It is mine, a token from he who gave it to me.” Fenris replied. He did not bother to try and lower his pitch or change his voice. He would not hide anymore. There was a clattering of silverware, heavy footsteps approached, and Fenris turned as Anders reached him and they pulled the wolf hood off Fenris’s head together. The wolf was a wolf no longer. He was a man. 

”I knew it!” Anders cried out, and he stumbled into Fenris’s arms. Fenris held the man up as Anders curled into their embrace, and Fenris’s concern increased as he realized that the man was dramatically lighter than the last time they met. 

”Shh. You are not well, Anders.” Fenris murmured, leading Anders back to his chair. Anders had to rest. Fenris would nurse Anders until he was well again. 

”I will be now that you’re here.” Anders replied, his tired eyes gleaming with a feverish joy. “I knew it was you, I was so certain but I kept doubting myself. I thought I was going mad!” 

”I did not mean to alarm you.” Fenris said. “Sit- yes, sit down and eat. You must regain your strength.” 

”I will rest later. Eat later. I want to spend time with you.” Anders protested. He picked up the spoon and picked at the rice porridge. Fenris reached out and pulled a blanket around Anders’s shoulders. Anders leaned into Fenris’s touch. 

”I won’t leave you.” Fenris murmured, and he took a seat next to Anders. “Not when I came to take care of you.” 

”If you’re staying,” Anders said softly. “If you are truly staying, won’t you now tell me your name?” 

”I am Fenris.” Fenris told Anders. “And I am here to stay.” 

-

Anders recovered under Fenris’s tender care. In only days he had returned to his patients and his potions, and in the following weeks it was said his smile rivaled the brightness of the sun. Fenris left the kitchens and his cabinet under the stairs. He took a job with the city guard and a place in Anders’s apartments. The streets of Kirkwall buzzed like a bumblebee’s hive with the news that the mysterious lyrium warrior who won the tournaments was the Wolf of Minrathous, who fought chains formed from hatred and was brought to heel by love. Fenris mocked the poetic sentiments, and Anders bristled at the statements. 

”I did not tame you!” Anders would grumble as they read together in the library or took their walks in the gardens as he collected medicinal plants for his clinic. “You are no wild beast! You are a perfectly polite gentleman!” 

”I agree.” Fenris would reply. “For it is I who tamed you. Hawke told me you were quite the wild coquette before I arrived.” 

”Hawke talks quite freely about my past for a woman who is being so mercenary with her marriage. She has no right to talk.” Anders would retort, and the conversation would change to other topics. 

They would speak of their childhoods, their families, their greatest triumphs and greatest loves and greatest fears. And when the day turned to night Fenris would climb into Anders’s bed and luxuriate in touches freely given and received. And Anders taught him how to touch back, how to share in affection and pleasure given in love and not just lust. Fenris had no more dreams of wolves and gods, and he woke every day with the morning sun and a sleepy Anders begging Fenris to stay in bed for only a few more moments. 

And soon enough it was Lady Hawke’s wedding day, and Fenris stood by Anders’s side as they witnessed the procession into the great Chantry hall. 

”Your robes are wrinkled.” Fenris whispered as he subtly straightened Anders’s dark blue silk and let his fingers trace the delicate embroidery around the low collar. They had shoved themselves into an alcove with a decent view of the procession, yet far enough away that no one would notice if they whispered dry commentary to each other throughout the ceremony. 

”And who is to blame for that, hmm?” Anders teased as he brushed Fenris’s hair back from his face. “You were the one who insisted on getting handsy in the clinic before we came here.” 

”And a good thing, too. You weren’t wearing smalls.” Fenris pointed out. He pulled Anders’s hands down and tied his hair back with a green silk cord. He wore a green tunic and leather leggings, and Ander’s golden earring was strung on a thin golden chain that he wore around his neck. 

”It’s more comfortable.” Anders protested. He was smiling, utterly unrepentant. Fenris adored his irreverence. No one in Tevinter would dare dream of breaking standard protocol. Not even magisters stepped out of line when their reputations were at risk. But Anders simply did what he pleased, and let what would happen happen. 

”You’re shameless.” Fenris snorted. 

”You enjoy it.” Anders purred out, and he snaked his hand around Fenris’s waist. Fenris allowed the touch. 

”Hush, Anders. It will start soon.” Fenris replied. Anders muttered something about the ceremony not meaning much in the first place, but they returned their attentions to the procession. Or, to be more accurate, the gathered throng in the Chantry. The nobility stood near the main aisle, all of them vying for space in the Chantry and place of importance near the altar. The Vael family of Starkhaven stood on the left side. The Hawke family stood on the right. The Dowager Lady Amell was not present as she was escorting Hawke to the Chantry, but Hawke’s younger siblings were there. Fenris recognized the sullen blue eyed warrior from the final tournament. His name was Carver. A smaller woman with big brown eyes and a sweet smile stood by him. She was his twin and Hawke’s younger sister, a mage named Bethany. 

”Fenris, look.” Anders murmured. He pointed towards a group standing towards the front of the hall behind the family. Varric’s short, well dressed form was instantly recognizable. The giant red haired woman was a familiar sight to Fenris by now. Guard Captain Aveline was a harsh but fair taskmaster, and she was always delighted when Fenris led training sessions with the Guard. Her husband, Donnic, stood on her right. But the slender woman who stood between Aveline and Varric was a bit more unfamiliar until Fenris saw the pale hands and the intricate embroidery of her silver surcoat. Merrill was here, trying to be brave. Fenris felt his heart crack in sympathy for the woman. He knew what it meant to be separated from the one you loved. But while he was fortunate, Merrill had to watch Hawke wed another. 

”This must break Merrill’s heart.” Anders said sadly. “Especially with Isabela gone to sea.” Isabela went where the sea carried her, it seemed, and she did not stay in Kirkwall to watch Hawke wed. Not even for her dearest friend Merrill. 

”We can support her as best we can.” Fenris replied. He took Anders’s hand and wove through the gatherers until they stood behind Varric and Merrill. Varric noticed them nodded his head to greet them. Merrill waved hello. Her eyes were puffy and rimmed red from tears, but she tried to smile. Fenris touched her shoulder, a brief tap and nothing more. 

”Be brave.” He whispered, and Merrill nodded her head before returning her attention to the front of the Chantry and the altar covered in candles and red velvet. 

They all heard the trumpeters outside heralding the arrival of Hawke and her mother, and the gathered throng rose to see her. Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven, walked down the aisle. He wore white enamel armor, and his hair was neatly brushed back. 

”Is that Andraste on his crotch?” Anders whispered, and Fenris elbowed him in the ribs. “Ouch!” 

”Behave, Anders.” Fenris murmured, but Anders was telling the truth. Vael was wearing the face of Andraste on his belt, her serene countenance forever captured in white enamel and gold. He stood at the altar and waited, and the trumpets sounded again and this time it was Hawke who entered. 

Tradition dictated that Free Marcher brides garb themselves in white, but Hawke was never traditional. She clad herself in a gown of crimson silk trimmed with fur. She wore pauldrons of steel on her shoulders, and the crown upon her head was of iron. She was beautiful and intimidating and completely herself. Fenris heard Merrill smother a sob with her fist. Her thin shoulders shook until Aveline draped an arm around her in an awkward hug. Varric patted her free hand, and Anders leaned forward to whisper words of comfort. 

”Fenris and I can take you out of here, if you need space.” Anders suggested. 

”No.” Merrill whispered back stubbornly. “I must see this through.” Hawke took her place at the altar, and the Chantry fell silent before the reverend mother began her sermon. The old woman shuffled forward, her white and red velvet robes stiff and perfect. She coughed once, took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak. 

”Wait a moment.” Hawke said, her voice booming through the hall. She turned to Sebastian, who gave her a patient sort of smile. A friendly smile. And as Fenris saw the friendly, knowing gleam in both of their bright blue eyes, he knew that the couple was up to something. 

”Marian!” Lady Amell hissed. “Don’t you dare make a scene!” The Lady Amell clearly knew her daughter, and she knew that Hawke was changing the day’s plans. 

”I’m not making a scene, mother.” Hawke said cheerfully. “Sebastian and I have already discussed all of it. Everything’s arranged.” 

”If you’ll excuse me, Reverend Mother.” Sebastian said politely. “I will preside over the ceremony today.” 

”I am afraid I cannot, Prince Sebastian.” The Chantry Mother said. “You cannot preside over your own marriage.” 

”That’s all well and good, then!” Hawke said cheerfully. “For we aren’t getting married!” 

”Marian Amell Hawke!” Lady Amell cried out, but Hawke ignored her. She turned to the gathered crowd, her ice blue eyes searching the faces for one particular person. Merrill shrunk down to hide behind a few other spectators. Aveline crossed her arms and moved in front of her, and together Fenris and Anders moved closer to hide Merrill from view. 

”First, though, I must apologize.” Hawke said, her eyes settling on her gathered group of friends. “I must apologize to the woman I love more than anyone. I broke her heart by being so obsessed with duty and the responsibilities of my station.” Merrill’s little sob echoed through hall. The crowd shifted uneasily. 

”I thought she would not understand what it meant, to live for others. I thought I could save her the pain of having a half-partner by letting her be free to choose another.” Hawke explained. “I should have known that she, out of everyone, would understand responsibilities a leader owes to their people.” 

Hawke took a deep breath, and Fenris saw that her hands were trembling. ”But I can’t marry for duty. My life will be dedicated to my responsibilities to Kirkwall. If my life will belong to Kirkwall, I want my love to be what I choose.” And then Hawke stepped forward, towards the gathered crowd, and smiled. 

”I’m sorry, Merrill. I hurt you and was too damn proud to apologize. I love you, and I’m sorry for what I did. Can I try to do it right this time?” Hawke asked. A streak of silver and dark hair bolted from the crowd and down the aisle, and Merrill leaped into Hawke’s arms. And they were crying and laughing and tears ran down both of their faces. The crowd was murmuring quite loudly now 

”Hawke!” Merrill sobbed. “Ar lath, Hawke! Ar lath!” 

”I love you too, Merrill. I’m sorry I’m an idiot with no more sense than a barrel of dead fish.” Hawke murmured, and Merrill’s tears turned to laughter akin to silver bells ringing in the spring breeze. Fenris reached over and grabbed Anders’s hand. His heart felt full, seeing another finally find the love they so desperately longed for all this time. Anders squeezed back, and the crowd’s confusion seemed to only increased until Sebastian Vael politely escorted the Chantry Mother to her seat and took her place at the altar. 

”It would seem that there is still a wedding to be had, and it would be my greatest honor and pleasure to preside over the ceremony.” Sebastian said cheerfully, and Merrill, First of Clan Sabrae and Marian Hawke, Viscount of Kirkwall, were wed by a prince turned priest surrounded by their friends, family, and several dozen extremely confused nobles. And when Fenris felt water on his cheeks a rough fingertip gently wiped the tears away. 

”Tears, Fenris?” Anders asked. Fenris smiled up at him. 

”I enjoy happy endings.” Fenris explained. Standing here surrounded by friends and next to the man he loved, Fenris knew that even his darkest days would have some light to them. But while stories can be carded and cleaned and spun like wool thread, the moment the thread on the bobbin is tied up and spool set aside, more wool is brought in and the work begins anew. Spinning is never done and stories never truly end. 

”This is no ending, my love.” Anders murmured, leaning down to steal a brief kiss before they returned to the revelry. 

“This is only the beginning.”


	2. A Short Story For After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short after chapter to Cloak of a Thousand Furs.

To prepare wool for spinning, it must be clean. Use hot water and push the wool in, up and down. Repeat as necessary. Pour out the water and let the wool dry. Card the washed wool and smooth out the lumps to turn it from unusable fleece to fiber that can be spun and dyed and woven.

Much like wool, stories must also be washed and carded, turned from unorganized thoughts drifting in the mind into the poetry that soars off silver-tipped tongues. Every story, no matter how fine the ideas, must be washed and carded. There is always work to be done and improvements to be made, for a weaver and a storyteller’s work is never done.

Anders had been fidgeting all morning. Fenris noted that it started the moment he rose from his bed and continued through his breakfast of porridge. He rearranged his shelves of herbs and medicines twice, and would have done so a third time if Fenris had not snuck up behind his lover to comfort him. He wrapped his arms around Anders’s waist and propped his head on his shoulder.

”You are anxious, Anders.” Fenris murmured. “Will you not tell me what troubles you?”

”He is keeping secrets, Warrior. Secrets he refuses to tell even me.” It was the enigmatic orange cat that spoke. The cat came and went as he pleased, dressed in a set of armor that Anders crafted. He did not wear the armor now, but glared up at Fenris with amber eyes that flashed blue. When the cat first spoke to Fenris he nearly ran through the creature with a sword. But Anders explained that the cat was mostly harmless, and had been a helpful and faithful companion during his travels. Fenris regarded the creature with suspicion, but it never harmed Anders and Anders doted on the animal. He let the cat come and go as it pleased, but Fenris never felt comfortable when it was around.

”Hush, Pounce!” Anders ordered. He turned around in Fenris’s arms and kissed him, and Fenris felt Anders’s smile on his lips. Fenris’s hands settled around Anders’s slim hips. Anders was wearing his plain but serviceable forest green wool robes today, though he threw on his feather capelet over it. He was in a good mood, then, and not spiraling into melancholy.

”I have another name and prefer that to Pounce.” The cat intoned gravely, but Anders ignored him in favor of showering Fenris with affection. Fenris approved of Anders’s attentions, and eagerly returned the kisses. The cat let out a little huff borne of irritation and slunk away to lounge in a sunbeam.

”I wanted to go by the docks today.” Anders murmured against Fenris’s mouth. “Isabela should be returning from her travels. I can’t wait to introduce you two.”

”We’ve already met.” Fenris pointed out as Anders wrapped an arm around his waist and took his hand. “And you have written her many letters.” Anders merely smiled and hummed slightly off key as he led them in a waltz around the clinic. Fenris kept them in step and in rhythm as Anders danced past the snoozing feline.

”I want her to meet the love of my life.” Anders said. “Will you come with me, Fenris?” When Anders smiled at him, sunlight turning his blond red hair into a fiery sunset, Fenris could refuse him nothing. He would go. 

Fenris had to lead them to the docks without attracting any unwanted attention. Anders insisted on privacy, and Fenris was content to let the man keep his surprises. Anders was terrible at keeping secrets. He would reveal himself eventually. So Fenris guarded that privacy, sneaking them through the servant quarters after asking Merrill to keep Hawke occupied before she found out Isabela was in town and interrupted whatever it was Anders had planned. Merrill, more than happy to distract her wife with kisses and compliments, only asked them to say hello to Isabela when they saw her. So they hurried down the winding steps of Kirkwall towards the docks with Isabela’s great ship sailing into the bay.

”I am surprised she came back so soon.” Fenris remarked as they walked past street vendors hawking their wares. “The wedding was but a month ago.”

”I think she wanted to clear her head.” Anders said. “Merrill is her dearest friend, and she was furious with Hawke. None of us knew what Hawke and Sebastian were planning.” Anders seemed slightly offended that Hawke didn’t trust them enough to explain her plans, but Fenris understood. Secrets were best kept between as few people as possible.

”There are talks of he and Bethany marrying. The two seemed friendly.” Fenris remarked casually, taking Anders’s hand in his. To hold his hand and hold it freely, it was an intoxicating pleasure. Fenris took the greatest of joys in it.

”Bethy with him?” Anders explained. “It would be like marrying a monk!”

”Sebastian is a good man.” Fenris said calmly. “But I doubt they will marry. He is devoted to the priesthood.”

”I should invite my friends to our wedding when we have it.” Anders muttered. “Get Bethany a better man than some poncy fool who wears Andraste on his crotch!” Anders complained and schemed, but Fenris was stuck on the word wedding.

”You wish to marry me?” Fenris whispered. His legs could barely move, and all he could do was cling to Anders’s hand.

”Not right now, of course.” Anders said casually, as if it was all so simple. “But yes, Fenris. I’d like to marry you. Make this official, with paperwork and rings and a ceremony. Varric can officiate.” Fenris reached one hand up to his neck to clutch at the worn down golden earring dangling from its chain. Marriage. Official.

”I already have a ring.” Fenris whispered. How could he ask Anders for more when he had so much already? Slaves owned nothing. Even his sword, his armor, his gauntlets, his cloak of fur- they were Danarius’s possessions. Fenris stole them when he stole himself. The few things he owned- his coin pile, his rescued clothing, the circlet of silver and moonstones- those were small trinkets compared to the worn down ring hanging off his neck, his great gift from Anders. But he had more now. He was free. And Anders wanted to give him more. He could barely grasp the concept.

”Love, what’s wrong?” Anders asked. His eyes were soft and worried.

“I did not realize that marriage was a possibility.” Fenris replied. It never crossed his mind at all. He only planned to live with Anders, live and love him and that would be all. That would be his life, a life well lived. He would find peace. He would be content.

But marriage. _Marriage_.

“It doesn’t have to be now.” Anders murmured. “But I would like to call you husband, Fenris. I will wait.” Just like Anders, Fenris thought, to listen and wait. He was not a patient man by nature. Fenris learned more of Anders as they tied their lives together, and Anders’s impatience was the cause of many entertaining and bizarre situations they found themselves involved in every day. Anders would swallow his food quickly without letting cool before he ran off to his clinic. He rushed through his tasks, he was forever trying to get to the point of all conversations, and he simply wanted to move through life quickly to get to what he wanted. But he had an infinite amount of patience for Fenris. Perhaps he saved it all for him.

“You are always waiting for me.” Fenris said, and he smiled as his vision watered. “Someday I will catch you.”

“You already have.” Anders brought Fenris’s hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Scratched and scabbed knuckles, for Fenris had been practicing with Aveline’s guardsmen again. The injuries he incurred on duty were never serious, but Anders always treated them with the same care and solemnity of the most serious of battle wounds. Fenris didn’t deny that he relished the attention. He had never enjoyed the feeling of being touched, but he basked in the sensation of Anders’s hands on him. Touching Anders was also a treat he enjoyed.

“We should hurry down. Isabela might already be in a bar.” Fenris joked. Anders smiled. He smiled often now.

“Yes, we should. Though she might not appreciate our interrupting her fun.” Anders said, and they walked hand in hand down to the docks.

Isabela’s boat was an impressive three masted affair with a bare breasted mermaid blowing a cheeky kiss at the prow. While the boat was anchored at the dock and sailors were hastily unloading the cargo, Isabela was nowhere to be seen.

“Perhaps we just missed her.” Fenris suggested, but Anders frowned and shook his head. He was tapping his foot again, a nervous habit that Fenris was now well-acquainted with. Anders looked up at the ship and scanned the crowds.

“No, I’m sure we would have seen her.” Anders insisted. “We should get closer.”

“Closer to the smell of fish, wonderful.” Fenris complained, but he let Anders lead him. There were few places he wouldn’t go if Anders led him, and Anders was insistent. What was the smell of fish compared to his lover’s satisfaction? They were just at the base of the gangway, where the ramp met the dock, when Isabela’s rich voice swept over them.

“Ahoy there, handsome!” She cried out, and Fenris looked up. Isabela was a vision of wild beauty in the sun, dark hair loose and dark, eyes flashing brilliantly as she smiled her dangerous smile. Anders laughed and waved, but Fenris’s hand tightened in his and his breath caught in his throat. Isabela was not alone on the deck.

There was a young elven woman, pale and grim faced, standing next to her. Her lips were painted dark, so it was easy to see the flat line of her mouth in her face. She was neat and presentable, her bright red hair bound back into a neat little bun at the nape of her neck, and her features were strong. They were familiar features, ones Fenris knew well. And there was another who stood beside her, slightly hunched over, her hair ash grey, but he knew her. He knew them both.

“Mother?” Fenris whispered, hardly believing it to be true. “Varania?”

Anders squeezed his hand tightly. “Go ahead.” He whispered. “You should say hello.”

Fenris did not run. He could barely walk. He stumbled to the end of the gangway, pulling Anders along with him, and the trio of women descended, mother, sister, and friend.

“Tevinter seas are a bit choppy.” Isabela said easily, and her voice came as if from far away because his sister was leading their mother down the wooden ramp, her brilliant green eyes focused on her every step, and his mother stared steadily at him. She moved slowly, but gracefully. And when she reached the dock she held open her arms and Fenris collapsed inside her embrace.

“My boy.” She murmured. “My darling boy.” Fenris clung to her and they were shaking, and a slim little hand rested hesitantly on his shoulder. Without looking Fenris pulled his sister into the embrace, and they all held each other and were silent, for what could be said?

“Isabela, is there a room where they can reunite a little more privately?” Anders suggested, but Fenris didn’t care who saw. His mother. His sister. Here at last, when he thought it was impossible. He lifted his head from his mother’s narrow shoulder to stare at Anders, who stood next to Isabela now and smiled at him. How? How had he done all this? How had he known? Gratitude and love swirled up inside him. Anders was always able to work miracles. A man of great magic and great kindness, and he gave it freely to Fenris. He arranged this with Isabela somehow. He helped Fenris make a life and home here, and then he gave him his family back. He had little to offer Anders in return, but he would offer it freely to him, now and forever.

Fenris did not know how Isabela moved them into a small room in one of the dockside inns, but he found himself seated across from his sister and mother in a cozy room with Anders by his side. Isabela had taken the seat next to Varania, and was cheerfully recounting her voyage up to Tevinter. Fenris did not let go of his sister or mother’s hands, even as he leaned against Anders for support.

“I was just off the port in Ostwick when I got your letter, Anders. Happy to know darling Fenris revealed himself to you. Much more handsome without the fur cloak and secrecy, sweet thing.” Isabela said with a merry wink. “And Merrill was writing all the while, since I told her where I’d be, and she let me know that Fenris was The Wolf of Minrathous, and of course I was curious because not many famous gladiators make it out of the arena, obviously.” Varania and his mother’s hands tightened around his, and Fenris squeezed them to reassure them that he was alive, that this was real.

“How did you know where to find my sister and mother, Isabela?” Fenris asked.

“Varric.” Anders said simply. “I asked him to ask his contacts, and they got in touch with Isabela.”

“Your friend Varric knew a customer of my employer.” Varania said dryly. “Magister Tilani gave us the funds to start a new life here in Kirkwall, and we went on Isabela’s ship once we were assured she was no slaver or trickster.”

“A trickster, yes.” Isabela said with a chuckle and smile on her lips. “But never one for trafficking living cargo. You were both safe as Andraste’s knickers in a Chantry lockbox with me around.”

“You are no trickster, Isabela.” Fenris’s mother said kindly. “You saved us both. You brought me to my son.” She smiled at Fenris then and patted his hand, and Fenris could only stare at her face- older than in his dream, but still her. There was the nose, the chin, the dark eyebrows, and the eyes their family shared. Green, bright, and proud.

“You look far more handsome in the flesh than in dreams, my son. And so happy! Love suits you.” She declared. Fenris felt himself blush, for it was far easier to proclaim his love for Anders in private or in dreams. 

“How did you know to trust Isabela?” Fenris asked. A magister’s word to an elf meant little in the Imperium. They were not honor bound to keep a promise to an elf, free or not.

“Fen’Harel.” Varania said simply, and it explained much. “He came to me in dreams and told me to watch for the woman with gold in her ears and eyes. He told me you were his champion.” Varania gripped his hand tighter in hers, her green eyes bright with tears. There was anger and sorrow in those eyes, and Fenris wondered what so changed the cheerful sister he once knew. She was a new person now. He did not know this Varania, but he desperately wanted to.

“I thought it was madness, some wishful dream after you disappeared from Minrathous, but then Mother said she saw you.” Varania shook her head. “If you knew who you were, why didn’t you try and find us? Why didn’t you take us with you?”

“I didn’t know where you were.” Fenris confessed. “I thought you were gone forever.”

“You didn’t bother.” Varania muttered, drawing her hand away. “You didn’t even try.” She stood up from the padded bench she sat on and hurried out of the room into the tavern beyond. Isabela moved from her spot leaning on the mantle.

“I’ll keep an eye on her, Ashei. She’ll be safe.” She promised. “You and Fenris should catch up.” Isabela winked at Fenris’s mother, a bold sort of wink, and she smiled in return. Her eyes looked sad, and her mouth was strained, but it was still a smile.

“The world was not kind to you, my darling, but it was not kind to us either.” Fenris’s mother said sadly. “Your sister blames herself for what the magister did to you.”

“It was my choice.” Fenris insisted. He often wondered if it was worth it, but with Anders by his side and his mother and sister safe before him, he would say it was.

“Her magic manifested a week after you were sold. She believes that if she offered herself to the magister as an assistant, she could have kept you safe. But we were freed instead. We heard tales of your victories and we could do nothing.” His mother sighed and shook her head. “But enough of this dark talk! Who is the man by your side? You must introduce me!”

“Mother, this is Anders, a great healer and my…” Fenris struggled to find a proper word to describe Anders, the entirety of his being and his importance in his life, but nothing suited. “Anders is my lover. Anders, this is my mother, Ashei.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Anders said politely. “I am glad the voyage was safe.” Fenris marveled at Anders’s calm. It felt like a storm raged inside his chest. His hands trembled, until Anders wrapped an arm around his shoulders. The weight comforted him, stilled him, and Fenris could breathe again.

“Your friend Isabela kept us safe.” His mother smiled, and it was warm and everything Fenris remembered. “She told us that you insisted on finding us.” Her green eyes peered up at Anders, and Fenris knew that if he were not already in love with the man by his side, he would have fallen in love in that moment when his breath caught in his throat at Anders’s sweet smile.

“I asked our friend Varric to find Fenris’s family, and Isabela picked you up once we knew where you were.” Anders said, and he hesitantly, shyly, looked over to Fenris. “It was difficult to keep it a secret. I wanted to make sure it was safe, and I couldn’t bear to raise your hopes only to have them destroyed if it all went wrong.”

“So you all kept it secret?” Fenris asked. Anders orchestrated the retrieval of his family just to make him happy. Just for him. No one had ever done so much expecting nothing in return.

“Just Varric, Isabela, and I.” Anders said. “Hawke can’t keep a secret, Maker bless her.”

Fenris didn’t know what to say. He hardly knew what to do. But his mother did. She stood up and leaned over, kissing his forehead right between the three lyrium dots embedded in his skin.

“I will check on Varania. Join us when you are ready, my darling.” She murmured, and she hobbled out of the room. Fenris watched her leave, and when the door closed he turned to Anders.

“I’m sorry I kept it secret. I wanted to surprise you.” Anders apologized.

“You sweet, stubborn fool.” Fenris murmured, and he clung to Anders. Anders held him, and Fenris felt whole.

“You found my family. You gave them back to me.” Fenris whispered. He would have to work at rebuilding his relationship with his sister. He had to learn who his mother and sister had become. But they were here now. He had a second chance.

“We’ll make sure they can have a good life. Varania can train as a healer if she wants. We’ll take care of them, Fenris.” Anders promised. “You’ve got a home here.”

“I have a home with you, Anders.” Fenris said, pulling his friend, lover, his life into an embrace and kissing him firmly on the mouth. A home, with his mother and sister and the man who brought them together. Fenris could ask for nothing more.

Wool must be washed and cleaned and carded before it can be spun and dyed and woven. Wool, like stories and homes, take work to craft. But every day, the wool of Fenris’s life took shape. Every day wove itself into the tapestry of a story, and the thread of his family finally wove itself into the fabric of his life once more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading this story!
> 
> I had planned on writing an epilogue to reveal what Isabela was doing while skipping out on Hawke's wedding, but it didn't feel like a proper sort of ending for this story. I may add it as an extra afterwards chapter to this. Is anyone interested in reading it?
> 
> Also, the amazing [drawsshits](http://drawsshits.tumblr.com) created beautiful fanart, as seen above! Go to her tumblr and see the rest of her art, she is quite talented!
> 
> Questions, comments, critiques, and anything that comes to mind about this story (and any other stories of mine) are welcome here in the comments or at my tumblr!
> 
> Again, thank you for reading!


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